


Harvest to Home

by AdamantEve



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Adult Content, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Betty knows how to do everything, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Profanity, Romance, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Widowed, domestic goddess Betty, published author Jughead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-17 09:39:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 131,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12362925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantEve/pseuds/AdamantEve
Summary: Most days, Betty Cooper rose before the sun, dressing herself for farm work and getting breakfast ready for her two farm hands, Farmer John and Kevin. ...This farm life was a dream come true. She reminded herself often that this was what she always wanted, and it was the truth. Only thing was that she never thought she’d be alone doing it. She had always thought she’s have someone by her side....He had not expected Betty Cooper to look the way she did. When he booked this Bed & Breakfast as his writing getaway, he had been told that it was a quiet, out of the way place, with an accommodating owner/hostess who cooked divine spreads, offered great conversation, and made her guests feel right at home.He had been expecting a more matronly figure, gray haired perhaps, stately, maybe, the way those baby boomer, Hampton-living, ladies carried themselves. She had, after all, been described by his editor as a cross between Martha Stewart, Ina Garten, and Ree Drummond of Pioneer Woman fame. None of those ladies were leggy, in their twenties, smelled like sweet lilacs, and was gorgeous as hell. And none of them had that long blonde hair...





	1. The Chemistry of Bread

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work of fiction for the Riverdale/Bughead fandom, but I've been writing fanfiction for years (mostly for the Harry Potter fandom as Delivermefromeve and in the past for the Teen Titan and Rurouni Kenshin fandom). I have a couple of other Riverdale fanfics already done, but I thought this one was the best to share. 
> 
> Note that Betty, in this fic, is pretty much everything you can ask for in a person, basically a product of an overbearing Alice Cooper. I would not have given her all these abilities otherwise. And Jughead, in this fic, is a successful writer. They are both older (in their late 20s) and this is a universe where Betty never met Jughead, Archie, and Veronica. 
> 
> This work will eventually have smut, half of them probably pointless, but it's fun to write, so there you have it. There is a ton of domestic bliss in this fic, and very minimal conflict. I wouldn't call this a slow burn. Maybe a medium one. 
> 
> Hope you have as much fun reading this as I did writing it.

_Excerpt from_ **_Harvest to Home_ ** **,** **_The Chemistry of Bread_ **

 

_“Bread is never natural. It is not a thing that grows out of the ground as loaves and rolls. It does not come out of the soil risen or baked._

 

_Bread is a processed food, created from wheat ground by men and women, iodized salt, brown and white sugar, and chemical reactions. Anyone who sells you “natural and organic bread” is trying to sell you something else._

 

_My hands have made countless connections between earth, table, wood, and fire in the repeated ritual of bread making. That is what makes homemade bread so rich and fulfilling. As you bring all the ingredients together, you are connecting yourself to the ground that gave you its ingredients and the people who made those ingredients ready for you to knead. Bread is a communal food, both in the making and consumption of it, which builds you and your relationships. In the process of creating your bread, making it puff with yeast, you are a chemical reaction in itself. The people around you adds something to you every day. You may have a consistent flavor, but you're never really the same exact person at each rising._

 

_That said, here’s an easy recipe that will probably make your bread dependably rich and tasty every time you make it….”_

 

_\--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast _

  
*********

Nothing ever happens at Riverdale Farms.

 

Most days, Betty Cooper rose before the sun, dressing herself for farm work and getting breakfast ready for her two farm hands, Farmer John and Kevin.

 

After breakfast, they’d talk about what supplies they were running low on, what needed repair, what issues the animals may have, and what ideas may have sprung up while they did what they did.

 

When their meeting adjourned, they’d head out in the field.

 

Kevin, a freelance carpenter, would go about building and mending things--fences, ditches, barns, and other farming structures. She only really needed him three to four times a week, and sometimes he’d come and there would be nothing, so he’d help her do _her_ farm work, which was to feed the animals, gather the produce from the vegetable field, fix broken machinery, and tend to the processing of the goat’s milk.  Sometimes, he had bigger carpentry projects that he was contracted for and he’d parcel out his time between that and the farm.

 

He was always a pleasure to talk to, and they’d become as close to being the best of friends as their working relationship could get them.  Sometimes, Kevin would ask her out to some gathering in town with his other friends. She almost always went. Of course, she never really met anyone in these gatherings who might be remotely interested in her, because Kevin was gay and so were his friends.

 

Farmer John wasn’t straight either. She had, after all, been introduced to him by Kevin. Farmer John tended the goats--his primary concern, and the Llamas, which were always incidental to goat care. Farmer John had a real passion for his job. He was a practical man, straightforward and steady, but when he talked about the goats, it wasn’t uncommon that he would be reduced to tears, telling her how big little Cheddar had gotten, or how proud he was of Jada for jumping over the fence even if she wasn’t supposed to. And this was when he was happy for them. It was a completely different matter when something goes wrong.

 

When something goes awry, Farmer John was all business and efficiency. He would apply first aid, call the vet, and make the arrangements for transport, then assign someone to watch over the goats while he was gone. He would stay with the injured or sick goat for days, if he had to. And in the rare instance of a death, he would hold a proper funeral, then weep for hours in mourning.

 

This had worried Betty immeasurably at first, wondering if she should be watching him when he got this way, but Kevin told her this was just how Farmer John was. He needed to weep. It was therapeutic for him.

 

“In the 20 years I’ve known him, he has never shown a single sign of depression or tendency for suicide,” Kevin said. “If you like fixing cars, he likes weeping. This is his thing. Books and movies make him cry too, you know. It’s like he has this endless supply of drama.”

 

Betty knew depression and anxiety. It was an old friend of hers, so she didn’t really take Kevin’s word for it at first. She kept an eye on Farmer John for a while, but when she watched him weep, then wipe his eyes, smiling happily as the goats gathered around his feet, and then continue on work like nothing was the matter, she figured he at least had a good coping mechanism.

 

At the end of the day, Farmer John and Kevin would leave, and the quiet of the farm—when the bleating of the goats grew silent, the flapping of the rainbow flag on her porch stilled, and the chickens roosted to soft clucking—would settle around her like the darkness.

  
**************

Betty liked to watch the sunset from her hayloft. Throwing a blanket over some hay, she would lie back with some cheese, fruit, and sometimes a book, and watch the day leave.

 

Sometimes she brought her cellphone up there with her to look at what was online. She had a blog called _Harvest to Home,_ paired with an instagram account where her blog photos and more were posted. People seemed interested in her farm life, so she posted about her produce and farmhouse, her flowers and herbs. They were also interested in her chickens and goats.

 

She also had vegans and vegetarians following her. She wasn’t vegan or vegetarian. She did eat less meat, however, because she didn’t kill her farm animals to eat. She bought her meat from surrounding farms, but she _could_ go weeks without eating meat if she only had herself to worry about. She had a vegetable and herb garden, which served most times for her meals. She made her own bread, which hipsters seemed to love judging by their instagram comments, and she did eat eggs regularly, in every way they could be cooked.

 

Sometimes she thought that the reason she could do all of this--bread making, butter churning, preserve canning, cheese aging, soap and shampoo producing--was because she was alone and she didn’t have to worry about anyone else, but she tried not to think too much about that, because it was a thought that could consume her, and sometimes she was afraid that the quiet of the farm could turn sinister if she wasn’t careful.

 

She loved her farm. Loved that she could cultivate life from it, loved that it earned her keep, but if she let herself remember how big it was, how empty it could be, how silent her hallways were, she was afraid she’d get lost in it.

 

This was why she had set up the farmhouse as a bed and breakfast. Her seven bedroom home _was_ too big for one person. It once had hopes and dreams of being filled with kids and celebrations, but when that dream failed, it became a naggy thing, constantly reminding her that it wasn’t a home for a woman alone.

 

It was around four years ago that she decided she would open her house up for friends and strangers alike. It wasn’t a full time occupation for her by any means--guests were few and far between, but when she did have them, she gave them her full attention. Her breakfasts were legendary, her meals hearty and delicious,  and when they were living at her place, she was a wonderful hostess, serving them bread, wine, cheese, and fresh produce. She showed them how she made her cheese and soaps. She played chauffeur for them their entire stay.

 

They were a break from her monotony and, loathe as she was to admit it, her loneliness. She tried not to say the L word to herself, because then it would be real.

 

Family visits were fleeting. There was nothing in her part of the world except the farm itself. Her sister, Polly, with her husband Jason, and twins, Sam and Caleb, came and went like a hurricane every other year. Her brother, Chic called her often, but he dropped by the farm even less than Polly did. Her sister’s sister-in-law, Cheryl, came by more often than Polly and Chic put together. She liked the whole _Farm Chic_ experience. She came around every few months when she needed to get away from her job, running her family’s empire in the city..

 

Betty’s parents didn’t speak to her.

 

She supposed she did like being alone to some extent. She like being away from the heavy eyes of expectation. She wasn’t an underachiever by any means, but she had long realized that expectations would be the death of her if she ever let it rule her life again.

 

 _This_ farm life was a dream come true. She reminded herself often that this was what she always wanted, and it was the truth. Only thing was that she never thought she’d be alone doing it. She had always thought she’s have someone by her side.

  
  
********************

 

Betty checked her logs and saw that a guest was expected at her bed & breakfast the next day. The name he gave her was Jughead Jones and he had booked an indefinite stay.

 

It was a rare booking, but not the first of its kind. She’d had a few business travelers settle in her farm for a few weeks, often there by recommendation of others. Though she was 45 minutes away from the main business hub, travelers often stopped by, just to find out what the fuss was about, only to end up cancelling their town hotel reservations and spend the remainder of their stay there.  

 

She supposed she was good at making people feel at home. She wasn’t a recluse by nature. She liked people, and she could stand them in groups if she already knew them individually. She preferred one on one conversations, getting to know them, making them her friend, or at least comfortable acquaintances. It was certainly why her Riverdale Bed & Breakfast was so beloved.

 

“You’re the main attraction, sweetie,” Kevin had told her one time, sipping coffee as he sat on her porch swing. “And even knowing you’re gorgeous, it’s not the looks you have, per se. It’s this whole vibe you have of making every little thing special, from the flowers in your bathroom to the little flourishes in your food. You’re classy like Martha Stewart, rustic like Ree Drummond, and friendly like Ina Garten. You know?”

 

Betty had rolled her eyes at him, scoffing as she did, but then she was tying twine around a bar of soap that _she_ made, wrapped in pink wax that was dotted with her farm monogram “RF” in silver--while dressed in a crisp white shirt dress cinched at the waist, brown boots, and a flowery scarf over her braided golden hair, So maybe she couldn’t exactly dismiss Kevin’s assessment of her, however embarrassingly self-aggrandizing it was.

 

As she closed her log book, she pulled her pad from its slot at her work desk and started making a list of things she may need to do in anticipation of Mr. Jones’s arrival. While she tended to keep preparations basic--freshen up the rooms, dust the house, prepare the meals--, sometimes she did a little Googling to see if she could personalize something for her guest. She didn’t go too much into it, lest she crosses some line to creepy, but if there was something general, like a birthday or anniversary, or maybe a well-documented hobby, she put a little something extra into welcoming them.

 

When she Googled Jughead Jones, she discovered that he was a writer and that he had published two novels, both of them crime thrillers, both of them successfully making the New York Times Bestsellers List. He was J. Jones on the cover and when, against her better judgment, she looked at his photos, she found a handsome young man with wild, luscious black hair who drove a motorcycle, smoked cigarettes, and hardly looked at the camera when his picture was being taken. Even his author photo was of him leaning back casually on his bike, ankles crossed, a live cigarette between his lips, a cheap cup of coffee on one hand, and a newspaper in another. He wasn’t paying attention to the camera at all and he was scowling at something he was reading. Some parts of the picture were blurry and Betty had a feeling that wasn’t on purpose. His hair was kind of a mess and his black shirt, worn dark jeans, and heavy black combat boots looked a little worse for wear. If this was his Picture Day outfit, he didn’t look like someone who liked attention.

 

 _One of the river rooms,_ she thought, knowing that he would appreciate the quiet view, the bookshelves, and the bay windows.  The sun did not rise on that side of the house, so he would appreciate darker mornings. She thought she might scent his room with vanilla, because he didn’t seem like a lavender or eucalyptus kind of guy.

 

She looked at his picture a bit longer and wondered if he was a little old school, based on the _Ramones_ t-shirt he had on. She went on Amazon and saw that his books offered excerpts online. She read the first book’s excerpt quickly. There appeared to be a noir-ish tone to his writing, so he probably liked watching old movies. His website offered a playlist of songs he liked. It was an eclectic mix, but he tended to lean classic: Beatles, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, and Joan Jett, but he also liked bebop jazz and hip hop.

 

When half an hour later, she was still reading up on Jughead Jones, she realized that she had perhaps crossed creepy territory twenty minutes ago and that she needed to stop obsessing over whether she should change his drapes to a darker gray.

 

She opted to picking some books he might like from her collection and stacking them artfully on his bedside table, with a handwritten note welcoming him to her home and conveying her hope that he’d enjoy some of the book recommendations she had left him.

 

She pinned the note to his bed with a sprig of dried flowers, vanilla scented, and a can of house made fruit pastilles. She had also called Farmer John on his cell phone, asking him to buy a few packs of smokes for her. She had had guests in the past who needed cigarettes but found themselves frustrated that there wasn’t a nearby 7/11 for them to buy some. Since she already knew Jughead was a smoker, he was likely to want a pack sooner or later.

 

The rooms were constantly aired and the house often cleaned, so there wasn’t much else to be done, but she always made her meals fresh for her guests, even if she prepared the ingredients ahead of time.  

 

She set to work chopping and cutting, putting them in handy containers and grouping them in her humongous refrigerator. The pies she assembled ahead. Those were always just a matter of popping into an oven and waiting for them to cook as close to mealtime as possible. By the time dinner rolled around, she was ready to receive her guest whatever time of day he arrived.

 

A flutter of excitement rose from the pit of her stomach. She always got this way when she expected guests. It was the newness of people. The possibilities they brought at the mere thought of their arrival. She looked forward to the break in her life’s monotony.  

 

This was what excited her.

 

And yeah, maybe the fact that those intensely blue eyes, attractive cheekbones, and rebel vibe kind of took her breath away, added to the fun.

 

His overall tall, dark, and broody was attractive, but _it was just fun._ Because he was a person, and he probably had a girlfriend, or he could possibly even be gay, or just be completely uninterested in flirting with anybody.

 

This was just normal Anticipation of Guest excitement.

 

She grinned at her reflection on the mirror, shaking her head at herself. “Tomorrow’s a new day and that’s always a good thing, Cooper.”

  
  
******************

Jughead Jones did not arrive as expected, which was a bit of a let down, but not unheard of. She’d had a few cancellations in the past, but they usually called ahead or at least the day of. Nevertheless, it wasn’t earth shattering, just mildly disappointing.

 

She didn’t lose any money by his non-appearance, except maybe for the cigarettes which was minimal, and she didn’t lose a day of work. Guests were never so disruptive that she had to stop everything she was doing to attend to them.  She had gotten to the point that the farm was a well-oiled machine, and there were hours between waking up and closing shop that she had to fill. She often filled them with crafting and creating, making her farmhouse modern and customized, but except for having things to talk about on her blog, they weren’t terribly necessary.  

 

Beautifying her house and writing about it on her blog was a hobby. It was the kind of thing she could set aside when she had to play hostess to her B&B guests.

 

She’ll live.

 

As she herded the last of the goats and Llamas into their sleeping pens and closed the barn doors around her property, she felt a raindrop on her cheek.

 

She looked up and saw the dark clouds in the evening sky.  She closed her eyes and felt more droplets on her face, cold and sharp against her skin. She stayed that way until the rain poured from the sky and she ran to take shelter.  Smiling to herself, she got under her porch and watched the rain fall on her farm, dripping herself dry.  

  
  
*********************

The night felt a little bit cooler for the rain, which hadn’t stopped since early evening. There were already reports of flash flood warnings on TV in the surrounding areas, but nothing catastrophic. It was a little windy outside, causing the rain to pelt her windows sideways.

 

To wash off the last of her disappointment, she had bathed in her tub, soaking in her favorite scented bath soaps with music in the background and a book to read. She loved these moments of relaxation, serving also as a means of quiet meditation.

 

When she got out of her tub, she felt clean, refreshed, and she smelled amazing.

 

She slipped into a comfortable pair of sleep leggings and an overly loose top to match. It was an old thing, worn in places, but it was comfortable and perfect for the chilly night. She let loose her long hair, letting it dry on its own.  She made herself some tea and sat on the living room couch in front of her old, craigslist bought flat-screen television. It was just good enough for streaming shows and movies from Netflix and Amazon, and new enough that it can get regular TV channels hooked up to it, but she didn’t watch too much television. She had a television installed for her guests who might appreciate movie nights and binge watching.  

 

She selected Galaxy Quest on Netflix, because she felt like she needed a bit of laughter tonight. She was just stifling a laugh at how Alan Rickman’s character, Sir Alexander Dane, was staring miserably at his gross and wriggling alien dinner when her doorbell chimed through the house.

 

She looked at her clock. It was just a bit past nine in the evening and it was still pouring outside, so she was a bit concerned about who it could possibly be.

 

The doorbell chimed again and setting her cup of tea down, she hurried to the door and looked through the peephole.

 

She saw a man soaked to the skin, his dark wet hair plastered to his face and head. He ran a hand through his wet hair and droplets shot out around him like fairy dust. His leather jacket made him look a little big and intimidating, but there was nothing but exhaustion marking the planes of his excruciatingly handsome face.

 

_Oh, my ovaries._

 

Her own thoughts made her cheeks burn.

 

This had to be the author, and he was turning to the windows now, probably checking to see if someone was inside the house.

 

She swung the door open.  “Jughead Jones?”

 

He turned to face her, his shoulders sagging with relief. When he saw her, he looked surprised, blinking for several seconds as he stood there, staring at her.

 

She arched an eyebrow. “You _are_ Jughead Jones, aren’t you? I’m Betty Cooper, your hostess and the person you’ve been emailing with.”

 

“Sorry,” he finally said, looking away and obviously embarrassed. “Yeah, I’m Jughead Jones. Good to finally meet you...  I wasn’t expecting--well, you’re younger than I expected.”

 

She pressed her lips together to stifle her smile. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard that. People who came to her farm expected a nice old lady in a pinafore and apron.  She had only just hit twenty eight a few months ago so she hadn’t quite left her twenties yet. She looked younger than an average Bed & Breakfast owner and manager, that was for sure. Her mid-century name didn’t help, either.

“Come inside before you catch your death of cold,” she said, putting forth a more familiar, country ma’am tone. It was just the sort of thing grandmothers said, she supposed, but it was all part of making her guests feel comfortable.

 

“Yeah,” he said absentmindedly. “I will, but do you have some kind of garage I can put my bike in? It’s a little banged up and I was hoping I can take a look at it…”

 

“Of course! Wheel it over to the building right here on the left--that’s my garage. I’ll open the doors for you right away.”

 

She hurried back inside, grabbing a towel from her linen closet, and going to the side of the house, through the mudroom, and through the door leading to the garage.

 

She hurried around her pickup truck, which was parked there, but the garage was large enough to accommodate big farm trucks and equipment. When they broke, she brought them in here and she fixed them herself.  

 

Her tools were lined neatly up on the walls, drawers, and shelves. It was a well-organized work shop, ready when she needed it.

 

Rushing to the big barn doors, she slid one side open.  Jughead was right there, and he wheeled his bike in, taking it and himself out of the rain.  

 

The wheel in the front was flat and she looked at him sympathetically, handing the towel to him.

 

He looked at her a bit warily before shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the bike. He took the towel from her and thanked her softly.

 

She told herself to stop checking him out, since his wet shirt was sticking to the planes of his body. He was slender, with a rather tantalizing hint of definition on his chest and abs, but his arms and shoulders looked damn good, and the sleeve of tattoos going down his right arm was doing things to her body temperature.

 

Tearing her eyes away as he ran the towel through his hair, she turned her gaze to his bike. “When did _this_ happen?” she asked.

 

He jerked his head back. “About two miles away. I figured I’d just wheel it all the way here instead of waiting in the rain for a tow.  Longest two miles of my life.”

 

She gave him a half smile as she began to examine the wheel. “Hell of a night to get a flat on a motorcycle. You could’ve called me and I could’ve gone and got you.”

 

“I didn’t want to--” he faltered slightly. “I figured I can handle it without bothering anyone.”

 

She wondered if he was just that kind of person who didn’t like asking for help, or if he just thought he would be asking a middle-aged to geriatric Bed & Breakfast hostess to get up from bed and creak her way to his location on her bad back.

 

“It wouldn’t have been a bother. I want to be there for my guests. Looks like there’s a nail in there,” she said, examining a knot in the rubber. “You okay? You didn’t take a spill, did you?”

 

He shook his head. “I wobbled and slowed down, but it was a gradual thing. I was able to pull up the side of the road.”

 

“It doesn’t look so bad,” she said, looking at the wheel again. “If you’re good with a patch up, we should be able to do that and you can get to where you’re headed after your stay here. If you’re going to a big city, I suggest you have the tire ordered up there so that by the time you get to them, you’ll have your wheel and all they have to do is replace it.”

 

“Can’t I get it replaced around here?” he asked.

 

She shrugged. “You can, but around here it takes at least two to three weeks for parts to arrive.”

 

He shrugged right back. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

She realized then that he was staying for at least three weeks, if not more.  She straightened and smiled. “Well, then I’ll order the parts for you first thing.”

 

He arched an eyebrow and she couldn’t help but note that his eyes were even bluer than in the pictures. “ _You’re_ ordering the parts.”

 

She was amused by his skepticism. “Yes. I’ll fix your bike. Unless you already have a mechanic around here…”

 

“Um, no. I’m very new to these parts,” he muttered.

 

She looked at the bags strapped to the back of his bike. “Are these your things?”

 

“I got them,” he said, slinging the towel over his shoulder and unstrapping his things. He tucked the backpack’s strap over his shoulder and carried the duffle bag by its handles.

 

“I’ll get your jacket,” she said, picking it off the bike’s seat. It was heavy with the rain. “I can hang it by the wood burner in the living room. Should help dry it properly.” She led him up the stairs to the mudroom, where he took a moment to wipe the bottom of his boots so that he wouldn’t trail so much water into the house.

 

She hurried to the living room and hung up his jacket, then hurried right back to him just as he was done wiping down his bags with his towel.

 

“Do you have anything dry to wear? I have some clothes I can lend you.”

 

“My bags are waterproof,” he replied. “I should have something.”

 

“Have you had anything to eat?”

 

“Not in a while.”

 

She smiled at him over her shoulder reassuringly. “I have a hearty, beefy soup on the pot. I just need to reheat it, and some fresh bread. Baked it this morning. I can make you a sausage omelette, too. With mushrooms in it. Easiest thing.”

 

“Yes,” he said, relief in his tone.

 

She wanted to ask him if he was saying yes to the soup or the omelette, but she figured she had already said the omelette was easy, so she’ll heat the soup and make the omelette, and he could decide then.

 

“You can come right down after you’re dry and changed,” she said. “Kitchen’s back there, but  first let me walk you up to your room. I call it the River Room because it has a nice view of Sweetwater River. You have a writing desk, some books and a shelf. You also have a bay window you can sit on comfortably, and while we generally don’t smoke in the house, I guess you can throw open a window if it’s late and you don’t feel like stepping out of the house.”

 

He gave a frustrated sigh. “Right. Smokes.” He dug into his pocket and fished out a soggy pack.  “Shit.”

 

“Fret not. I bought you a few packs. We don’t have a convenience store for miles around so I had one of my guys get you a few packs just to tide you over. I’ll give them to you when you come down for dinner.”

 

Again, he seemed surprised, then he sighed with relief. “Thanks. Seriously, this evening’s looking up.”

 

She was pleased by that. She took pride in giving her guests the best experience and she knew it was the little things she did for them, like the convenient pack of cigarettes and the books on their bedside table.

 

When they got to his room, she opened the door for him and he walked right in, putting his duffle bag and backpack down on the floor.  He took a deep breath and seemed happy with the vanilla smell, then he went over to the bedstand, picking up the first book on the stack.

 

“Walter Mosley’s _Charcoal Joe,”_ he said. “I’ve been wanting to read this for a while now.”

 

She cocked a smile. “You seemed like a Walter Mosley kind of guy. You might like the others, too. I’ve read them all. I make sure of that when I make recommendations. Those are mostly crime novels, but I snuck in a couple of YA novels in there, too. I figured you might like _The Lie Tree_ for its crime vibe and _The Serpent King_ for its dark coming of age themes _._ ”

 

He looked mildly stunned. “How did you know I liked YA?”

 

She felt her face grow warm, hoping that she didn’t come off as completely psycho. “Erm, your author Facebook page photo. You, um, have Stephen Chbosky’s words tattooed on your arm.”

 

His blue gaze flickered unconsciously to his arm for a second. “We accept the love we think we deserve,” he said, quoting his tattoo.

 

She nodded. “Anyway, full disclosure: I do a bit of research on all my guests. I want everyone to feel at home, so… don’t get creeped out. I swear, I didn’t dig too deep.”

 

“No, this is great,” he said, gesturing to the entirety of the room. “I’m already looking forward to staying here.”

 

“Excellent,” she said, smiling brightly. “I’ll be in the kitchen downstairs, but holler if you need me, alright?”

 

He nodded. “Alright. Um, Ms--erm, Mrs. Cooper?”

 

She blew a breath through her lips. “Good lord, please call me Betty. Mrs. Cooper is my mother and the only thing I’m married to around here is this farm.”

 

His face went red and he looked ready to jump out of his skin from embarrassment. “Right. Betty. I’m sorry I’m late. I wanted to get here earlier but I got sidetracked on my way here. I’ll definitely pay you for the day you lost.”

 

She chuckled. “Right, because I’ve fully booked all six of my empty rooms.”

 

His brows knotted in confusion.

 

“I didn’t exactly lose anything by your late arrival,” she explained, gently. “It’s all good, Mr. Jones. We’ll start fresh in the morning. Tomorrow’s a new day and that’s always a good thing.

 

His brows smoothed over, but his eyebrow arched again, a smile threatened to break from his lips. “Mr. Jones is the name of a song by Counting Crows. I’m just plain Jughead.”

 

She didn’t think he was plain at all, but she refrained from saying that. She didn’t make a habit of flirting with guests. “Come down whenever you’re ready, Jughead.”

 

When he nodded, she turned and shut the door behind her.

 

*******

 

Jughead blew a breath softly between his lips, staring at the door warily for a moment before he sat at the desk chair and started to remove his boots.  

 

He had not expected Betty Cooper to look the way she did. When he booked this Bed & Breakfast as his writing getaway, he had been told that it was a quiet, out of the way place, with an accommodating owner/hostess who cooked divine spreads, offered great conversation, and made her guests feel right at home.

 

He had been expecting a more matronly figure, gray haired perhaps, stately, maybe, the way those baby boomer, Hampton-living, ladies carried themselves. She had, after all, been described by his editor as a cross between Martha Stewart, Ina Garten, and Ree Drummond of Pioneer Woman fame. None of those ladies were leggy, in their twenties, smelled like sweet lilacs, and was gorgeous as hell. And none of them had that long blonde hair.

 

“You and your blondes, Jughead,” he muttered under his breath.

 

Not that he’s dated many. He didn’t go dating every attractive woman he met, and the two he’d dated seriously weren’t blonde at all, but almost all his _fantasy_ women were blondes. Hitchcock blondes, platinum blondes, strawberry blonde, and yes, golden blonde.

 

In all fairness, Betty seemed to be well read _and_ can change a flat tire on a Harley. That pretty much sealed the deal on his little crush. And if everything they said about her cooking was true, he was pretty sure he’d be halfway in love with her before midnight.

 

His room had its own bathroom, which was something he was truly grateful for. He found that he had a supply of those signature soaps, shampoo, and lotion he kept seeing all over the house, but the toothpaste was regular brand. He was a little surprised _that_ wasn’t homemade, but he supposed a smart lady like Betty would choose extensively researched dental products over her own homegrown efforts.

 

He refreshed himself a bit over the bathroom sink, then he stripped himself of his wet clothing.

 

He changed into dry underwear, a fresh pair of jeans,  and a plain white shirt. He towel dried his hair and tucked the necklace his father had given him under his shirt. He figured he’d go barefoot because she walked around barefooted herself.

 

He checked his phone and found that his best friend, Archie Andrews, had texted him from his New York penthouse.

 

**_How are the boonies? Asking for a friend._ **

 

That friend was Archie’s wife, Veronica.

 

Jughead typed his response.

 

**_Boonies are good. Veronica would like it here._ **

 

And that was the truth. Though in the middle of nowhere, this house was magazine shoot ready. It’s what Veronica would breathlessly call farmhouse chic, with its artfully distressed furniture, rustic decor, and modern flourishes, it seemed that Betty had an eye for class. The woman had mad interior design skills.

 

Tucking the phone into his pocket, he made his way down the flight of stairs. He could already smell the food cooking from the kitchen. He passed the living room and saw that the movie _Galaxy Quest_ was playing.

 

He paused for a moment, and sighed. It was one of his favorite movies.

 

_Get a grip, Jughead._

 

He followed the sounds of plates and cutlery chiming from the next room.

 

Betty was standing over a hot skillet, folding over the cake of eggs.

 

She smiled brightly when she saw him. “Just in time! This is almost done.”

 

A place had been set for him on the rustic kitchen table. There was a bowl of steaming hot soup set on his plate and a bread basket set on the side. A small bowl of butter sat beside it.

 

“You going back to watching Galaxy Quest?” he asked, taking his seat.

 

She took a moment to process his question, then she chuckled softly. “I’ve seen it more than a dozen times, so I really don’t need to see it again. I’ll sit with you.”

 

_Of course she’d seen it more than a dozen times._

 

When she set the omelette down, she sprinkled the top of it with some chives. She took some hot water from a tea kettle and poured it into a mug, submerging a tea infuser into the hot liquid. She took a seat at the table.

 

“I hope that aside from the flat tire, you didn’t run into too much trouble getting here,” she said, gesturing that he should start eating.

 

He was famished, and the soup smelled fantastic. He took a spoon and a slice of the warm bread, shrugging. “I ran a few errands on the way here, that’s why I was late in coming, but apart from that, it was an easy trip.”  

 

She nodded. “Good to know.”

 

He tried the soup and it was like comfort, flavor, and all beefy goodness. “Jesus, this soup is fucking amazing. Pardon my french, but it’s so good.”

 

She smiled shyly. “You’re just hungry. Now the bread--”

 

He tried the bread and it was fresh and perfect. “You made this yourself?”

 

“Most of everything here is homemade, but I _am_ proud of my bread. I love making them,” she said. “And it’s communal. You can share a loaf of bread on the table, sure, but the making of it--it takes a village. All the ingredients to make that bread came from someone’s hard work, and then when you put it all together, it comes into its own when it rises from the yeast. It’s chemistry and art coming together.”

 

He watched her talk about bread like it was the world in her hands.

 

“Sorry,” she said, her cheeks growing pink. “I guess I just really like making things in general.”

 

“Don’t apologize. I think it’s great.”

 

The omelette was delicious as well and he told her that if all her meals were this good, he would be 400 pounds by the end of the week.

 

She smiled and sipped her tea. “So are you here on business the next town over?”

 

He looked at her questioningly. “Business? Is that how I come off?”

 

“Well, people only ever come here for business in town. I’m not exactly a tourist destination.”

 

He debated telling her that her farm should be. It was idyllic and she was an attraction in itself, but he supposed that could make things immeasurably awkward. “I’m not a tourist and I’m not here on business. I basically came here to write. The book I’m writing is set in a farm off the beaten path. I have no concept of farm life and I needed a place to get away. Your farm came up by word of mouth and I thought it would be perfect if I can do my research and writing all at the same time.”

 

Her brilliant green eyes brightened.  “Your book--you mean your next one. You’ve published two of them, yes?”

 

He shrugged. He still couldn’t believe he wrote books for a living and that his job was basically to loiter in some farm, trying his hardest not to make an ass of himself in the presence of its beautiful hostess. “Yeah. I was lucky.”

 

She smirked. “I ordered your books from Amazon yesterday. _Epistrophe_ and _Goodbye, Sugar Pie Blues_ are still holding strong on the NYT Bestsellers extended list. They haven’t reduced the price.”

 

He smirked, shrugging. “I can’t control that, but I could’ve given you a copy of each for free.”

 

“But that won’t help you at all,” she pointed out as-a-matter-of-factly.  “Couldn’t help but notice the jazzy names, though. Was that you or your editor?”

 

“Both. I was inspired by Thelonius Monk’s _Epistrophy_ and Charles Mingus’s _Goodbye, Pork Pie Hat._ They’re compelling works of music that translate well to crime novels, so I wrote the first book, _Epistrophe,_ with an E, that way. It was my editor who thought it would be a good idea to name the novel in homage to the song. I went and just did it for the second book.”

 

She shook her head, smiling. “I never would’ve made an entire book based on bebop, especially since both songs are purely instrumental.” She reached for some of the bread and spread some butter over her piece. “Which is why you’re the writer and I’m the farmer.”

 

“I don’t know,” he said, cutting a large piece of the omelette. “We’re both creative people. We make crazy connections in our own mediums.” He nodded at something behind her. “At what point, when you were looking at that broken piece of folding door, did you know that you could make something beautiful out of it?”

 

She looked over her shoulder and saw that he was talking about two slats of a folding cabinet door. They were fitted into the corner of the kitchen and she had attached shelves onto them. She had painted and treated the wood, bringing out its distressed look in an appealing way. Above the highest shelf were mirrors set in the same right angle, beneath the mirrors was a ceramic pitcher, and a washing bowl. The second and third shelves contained blocks of her packaged soaps and bottles of her signature lotions.

 

She shrugged. “Saw them at the antique fair and bought them. I just knew I can make something out of it.”

 

He nodded, smirking. She had made his point for him.

 

“When you put it that way, I suppose I get it,” she said, simply. “Your books will probably arrive in a week. I’ll read them and we could discuss it at meal time.”

 

She didn’t sound like she had any doubts that they would. He couldn’t say otherwise, because it wasn’t as if he had any plans other than staying here and writing, especially if his motorcycle was out of commission.

 

As if reading his thoughts, she said, “I can drive you to wherever you want to go, by the way. I’ll be your chauffeur for your entire stay. If you need to go anywhere, just let me know. The keys to the house are in your bedside drawer so feel free to come and go as you please. My laundry room is right beside the mudroom. You can do your own laundry or you can leave your clothes outside your door in a bag that I’ve provided you--you should find it by your hamper--and I’ll do your laundry for you.”

 

Jughead thought that it had to be the most awkward thing to know that Betty Cooper would be sticking his wet underwear in a washing machine. “I think I’ll do my own, thanks.”

 

She shrugged. “Suit yourself. For food, you can always just grab something from the refrigerator and pantry between meals. I’ve got everything well organized in here so that you can find things easily.”

 

He did observe how things were in open baskets and trays, arranged in beautiful racks and shelves. Most things in jars were labeled, and the fruits and vegetables were so fresh they were gleaming.

 

“All from your farm?” he asked.

 

She nodded. “The vegetables are. I have a few fruit trees here or there, but I have to get most of them from other nearby orchards.”

 

“God, you can practically live off the grid out here,” he sighed. “Sounds amazing.”

 

And it did. The thought that he can actually remove himself from the rest of the world sounded so terribly appealing. He just might move here permanently.

 

“Does it?” she asked, looking amused. “People say that, but when it’s real, they get cabin fever. And I don’t know if it’s totally realistic. I’m lucky enough that my property runs through the cable company’s fiber optic route. Some places around here have to do _without_ internet. So that’s one thing I can’t do without. I mean, I can make my own toothpaste, for instance, but why the hell would I? With toothpaste, I'd like to stick to the hi-tech stuff, thanks. I like to keep all my teeth. So I order that stuff online.”

 

He chuckled. “Fair. Amazon delivers, thank God. Also, you’ve got movie streaming, probably local channels, and you apparently don’t sew your own clothes. So maybe not entirely off the grid, but sufficient enough that you don’t have to keep, you know, putting up with the shit that comes with interacting with a bunch of people all at once.”

 

She tilted her gaze at him, and his eyes were drawn to the golden hair cascading slowly down her shoulder. “Do you prefer to be left alone?”

 

“Sometimes. Most times. But by groups. Not one-on-one. I’m good like this. It’s parties that kill me.”

 

She nodded. “I understand. I have no problem being at parties in general, but I have to be ready for them. You can’t spring one on me. I would pick vegging out on the couch watching movies over a party any day, but I’ll go to a party if I have to do it for friends. Only one per week, though. Max. I will riot if you make me go to a party two days in a row. I need an entire week to recover from one.”

 

He couldn’t help but smirk. “You’re a social butterfly compared to me. But you get my drift. We’re not that different. People exhaust us.”

 

“Yes!” she gasped, then her cheeks turned red again. “Guests I can deal with constantly. I like having guests over. It’s one of my favorite things, because I do like knowing people enough to make them happy.”

 

He wondered if that made her a people pleaser, but that seemed like an unkind assessment of her. Maybe she _used_ to be one, but now she just liked spreading that feeling of warmth and welcome, because she was a hostess for a B &B after all. She excelled at it, anyway. No hotel would have had the desire to recommend books to him the way she did, books that he might _actually_ enjoy. No hotel would have promised to fix his flat tire.

 

“What time do I have to be down for breakfast?” he asked.

 

She cocked a smile. “That’s completely up to you. If you’re an early riser, let me know, but I usually have breakfast ready for my farmhands by the time they get here at 6. When I have guests, I prepare breakfast for them at the hour they prefer. I do have to know ahead what time that is, though.”

 

“I am not a morning person.”

 

“9:30?”

 

“ _Ten,”_ he corrected. “Ten thirty.”

 

“Brunch, then,” she said, smiling gently. “No problem, Jughead. Know, however, that coffee will always be there first thing. If you wake up earlier, you’ll get your caffeine fix.”

 

She stood suddenly and went to the refrigerator. He realized that he had finished _everything_ on the table. She brought something out of the refrigerator, and when she uncovered it, he saw that it was a cherry pie.

 

“Dessert?” she asked. “It’s not exactly as fresh as this morning, but I baked this pie just yesterday.”

 

He loved this place. “Still sounds awesome.”

 

She sliced a piece and put it on a plate, then she snuck it, plate and all, into the oven.

 

“Should be a couple of minutes, but it’ll be nice and warm.” She did not put the rest of the pie away.

 

“How long have you been doing this?” he asked, awed.

 

“The B&B?”

 

“Everything, I guess.”

 

A hint of a smile ghosted on her face and he wondered if her eyes always looked this vulnerable. “I moved to this farm when I was twenty. I loved it instantly. At the time, the only crop it had was corn. The animals were for eating and there were horses. Lots of horses. But they were too much money. They were the ones that went first, then a couple of failed crops later, we--I had to rethink the entire concept of this farm. I can’t even remember how I went from corn to goat’s milk.” She paused and sighed. “All these soaps and shampoos and lotions, that’s my product. I make them here, package them, and sell them to boutiques in New York. They sell really well. Same for the cheese, except I sell them to fancy restaurants. I refuse to mass produce them, because then I can’t control the quality. The B&B was a means to fill the house. It’s too huge for me to live alone in the whole entire year.” She threw her head back and closed her eyes. “God, it’s been eight years! Time flies when you’re having--well, stuff to do, I guess.”

 

He did note that she didn’t say “fun.” He supposed she thought that was disingenuous. Who had “fun” for eight years? Still, it was hard to imagine that a twenty year old would move into a house and farm like this all by herself.

 

“Did your parents buy this place for you?”

 

She chuckled and looked down at her hands. “My husband inherited it.”

 

He thought she had said earlier that she wasn’t married. He actually specifically threw that line of Ms. vs. Mrs. to find out if she was. Maybe they had separated.

 

_God. She married him at twenty._

 

“I know. It’s weird,” she said, cocking a grin. “I met him at eighteen and married him at twenty. But things don’t always work out the way you plan.”

 

Hope.

 

“Sorry.”

 

She shrugged. “I’ve moved on. I think. When your husband dies on you after just two years and you realize that you are officially a twenty two year old widow, it puts a lot of things in perspective.”

 

_Jesus. Now I feel like an asshole._

 

Before he could think on it, he put a hand over her arm. She was warm to the touch and she looked up at him, startled.

 

“I am so sorry, Betty,” he said, meaning it.

 

“It’s--it’s alright. Like I said, I moved on. It’s been six years after all. He changed my life. I am so grateful for that. This is the life I want and I never would have known that if I hadn’t met and married him. But thank you.”

 

His guilt gave him a mental slap to the back of the head. “I’ll be here a while, so maybe I can help you out in the farm. If it’s just to lift things, I think even an idiot like me can manage that.”

 

“You’re very kind, but are you sure you want to help?” A glint of mischief put the light back in her eyes. “The farm wakes up at 5:30. That’s 5 whole hours before you wake up.”

 

He took a deep breath and couldn’t really think of a response.

 

She laughed, getting up again to go to a cupboard to get something. It was his cigarettes. Half a dozen packs of Marlboros. His brand, of course.

 

“How much do I owe you for those?”

 

“On the house. Consider it a thank you gift for choosing my B&B.It’s as much for me as it is for you.”

 

Her face reddened right after she said it, but then she began to busy herself putting away his plates. When he tried to help, she shooed him away, telling him he could kick back and relax. Expertly, she put the warmed cherry pie in front of him, so that he had little choice but to eat it while she cleaned up around him.

 

She chattered lightly about the places he may want to venture to outside the farm. Everything was at least thirty minutes away, but it hardly mattered to him at the moment. He didn’t have any immediate plans of leaving the farm.

 

The pie was delicious and he finished it quickly. He brought the plate to the sink and started washing it along with the other dishes without asking her. She shot him a gently chastising look, but he shot a look right back. “You told me to feel at home and this is what I do at home.”

 

She rolled her eyes but patted his arm lightly. “Fine. But most days, I use a dishwasher. Let’s be completely clear. I try to do my part for the environment but as a matter of practicality, dishwashing and laundry need to be done by machine.”

 

When all the dishes and cutlery were on the drying rack and Betty had wiped every surface clean, she told him one last time that the house was at his disposal.

 

“I’m heading off to bed,” she said.

 

“So you really aren’t finishing Galaxy Quest?” he teased mildly.

 

She smiled. “I was only doing it to pass the time. Now the time has passed.”

 

When Betty left, he opened a pack of the cigarettes she got him and stepped out on the porch to smoke.

 

The rain had finally subsided into a soft drizzle, so now it was unbelievably quiet. There might have been the sound of a distant cluck from the chicken coop, and maybe the soft bleating of the goats from afar, but the peace surrounding him was slightly unnerving.

 

He could get used to it, however. It’s what he came here for. That escape from the white noise.

 

It was while he was leaning against a porch beam that he remembered what she said about her B&B. It was as much for her as it was for him--or rather, her guests.

 

Considering what he would be paying daily to live here and him being the only guest, it didn’t seem like she was making a profit from it. In their email exchanges about her prices, she had sent him a price menu, with fixed daily, weekly, and monthly rates, based on single, couple, and family occupancy. Her rates had been cheap, considering all meals and amenities were included. It was like living with your mother with cheap and controlled rent. If he ever wanted to move out here, he could just as easily start boarding in her home.

 

And perhaps that was the point. She wanted people to stay with her. She didn’t want to be alone in this house if she could help it.

 

The B&B was as much for her as it was for guests.

 

He wouldn’t dare feel pity for her. That was not what she wanted and it was not something he wanted to offer, but he could completely understand what she felt. It was the kinship of shared experiences.

 

He hadn’t lost a wife to death, but he’d known loneliness in his life. When he had been homeless, abandoned by his family, he had lived in a movie projection booth during warm months and the school janitor’s closet in the cold. When that became unavailable to him, he had lived with his best friends, first Archie, and then Veronica, her family eventually fostering him, and when he graduated high school and turned 18, he worked hard to stay off the streets and put a roof over his head. When his father got out of jail five years ago, he rebuilt his relationship with his father.

 

It was a hard road and it was still a work in progress, but he appreciated his father making amends, however late it was. He appreciated that his father was sober for five years. He was grateful that his father was, for all his faults and flaws, a pretty decent human being and that he did, truly, love his son.

 

All the way out here in Riverdale Farms, Jughead was an hour away from his dad’s house--the house Jughead bought for him.  It was the reason, after all, that he arrived late here. He had spent most of the day with his father, and it had been a good day.

 

He hadn’t expected it to end so perfectly, though. He hadn’t expected Betty.

 

Jughead finished his cigarette and wondered where he was going to put it out. He looked around and found an ashtray on the porch coffee table.

 

He wondered if she had put out the ashtrays specifically for him.

 

_Probably._

 

He went back inside, locked up, and retired to his bedroom.  He found the note on his bed welcoming him to the farm, with mention of the books she had set on his bedside table. He popped a pastille in his mouth and turned the card over. At the back of it was the WiFi network and password. He turned back to the front and examined the note more closely.

 

Her handwriting was neat and flowy, and she signed it “B” like a heart. The card was exquisitely tasteful. Satin colored paper, embedded RF monogram, and at the bottom were two  links. One was Riverdalefarms.com and the other was Tumble.com/hometoharvest.

 

She had a blog, which piqued his interest.

 

He dug out his phone and opened a browser. He typed in her blog url and started to read.

 


	2. Country Fried Pairing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He smokes and he likes to read books. He likes jazz and he’s kind of self-deprecating and wary. He’s polite and kind, but he has a bit of a potty mouth, and he listens. He’s a listener. I have a feeling he’s probably a funny guy, but like I said, he’s wary. Maybe has some trust issues. I think he’s still a little afraid to offend.”
> 
> She refrained from telling Kevin that she told Jughead Jones more about herself than she’s ever told any guest, but that was way too incriminating. She didn’t need Kevin thinking that she had taken too much of a shining to a guest. That was just too much potential for embarrassment. 
> 
> He frowned. “So he’s basically perfect if he weren’t such a toad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of things:  
> 1\. I deliberately spelled Tumblr as Tumble.  
> 2\. Farmer John exists and is a real person, except my Farmer John is a person of color. Remember that when you read about him in this chapter. The strangest parts of him are not fiction--they are true.

_Excerpt from_ **_Harvest to Home_ ** **,** **_Country Fried Pairing_ **

 

_“If there ever was a breakfast that warms the soul and sends it soaring for the rest of the day, it would be fried chicken and waffles. The crunchy, salty, greasy chunks of protein wrapped in that tasty, outer layer of skin, is always the perfect partner of the belgian waffle. It’s a matter of texture, so perfectly paired. They both have to be crunchy on the outside but soft and yummy on the inside. Chicken is savory, while waffles are sweet. The contrast is almost stark, but together they play a beautiful harmony on your taste buds. Slather both in my special maple-butter syrup and it’s a breakfast worthy of any southern table.”_

 

_\--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast _

 

When Betty rose at the crack of dawn to tend to her farm, her first order of the day was to text Kevin and tell him that her house guest had arrived.

 

Kevin loved meeting her house guests, and she surmised that he was as thrilled about possibilities as she was with the break in their monotony. It always warmed her, too, to know that she wasn’t alone in the house while guests were there.

 

As she served breakfast to Farmer John and Kevin, she prepared the ingredients for her fried chicken and waffles brunch. She would batter and fry the chicken later, closer to Jughead’s wakeup hour, but she was grouping her waffle ingredients together already. When it came time to make them, she’d simply throw everything in a bowl, mix, fluff, then make them on her waffle iron.

 

When breakfast for the farmhands were done, they went out into the field.

 

Betty made her rounds with the chickens and her rows of vegetables.  It was quick work, since there wasn’t much to do for both except to gather, so she made her way to her little soap factory, where Kevin was waiting for her at the barn doors.

 

“Don’t you have work to do, Kevin?” she teased.  

 

Kevin scoffed. “Like hell I do. Tell me about your house guest!”

 

She grinned and slid her barn doors open. The smell of soap wafted out in powerful waves, so she stayed out of her workhouse for a few minutes, airing out the mixed scents.  

 

“He’s a writer,” she said. “A novelist, specifically. And he’s published two books.”

 

“An intellectual!” gushed Kevin. “So far so good. Does he make a lot of money?”

 

Betty chuckled. “I haven’t checked his bank account, Kev. Next question.”

 

“How old?”

 

“Twenty nine, if my calculations are correct. His birthday’s posted on Google. You’re growing soft on me. Where are your hard-hitting questions?”

 

Kevin narrowed his eyes at her, smirking. “What does he look like?”

 

She pretended to think about it. “Tall.”

 

He made a face. “That bad, huh?”

 

Betty stifled a laugh, shaking her head. “What about ‘tall’ makes you think he’s the opposite of attractive?”

 

“If all you can say about his looks is that he’s tall, then he must be fugly.”

 

She rolled her eyes.  “You’re incorrigible. What happened to ‘What’s he like?’ ‘Did he make interesting conversation?’ ‘What are his favorite movies?’”

 

“How is it that a straight woman like you can be gayer than me?”

 

She gave him a mildly scolding look.

 

It was Kevin’s turn to roll his eyes. “Okay, fine. What’s he like?”

 

“He drives a motorcycle. A Harley Davidson, Dyna.”

 

Kevin gasped. “Ooh, interesting!”

 

“He smokes and he likes to read books.  He likes jazz and he’s kind of self-deprecating and wary. He’s polite and kind, but he has a bit of a potty mouth, and he listens. He’s a listener. I have a feeling he’s probably a funny guy, but like I said, he’s wary. Maybe has some trust issues. I think he’s still a little afraid to offend.”

 

She refrained from telling Kevin that she told Jughead Jones more about herself than she’s ever told any guest, but that was way too incriminating. She didn’t need Kevin thinking that she had taken too much of a shining to a guest. That was just too much potential for embarrassment.

 

He frowned. “So he’s basically perfect if he weren’t such a toad.”

 

She wanted to laugh at all the ways Kevin was calling Jughead ugly, the most hilarious thing being, of course, was that Mr. Tall, Dark, and Broody was drop dead attractive. At least to her, but then she had a thing for that rugged, rebel type.

 

Trev had been the rugged, rebel type. He was all the good things, wrapped in an amazing human being, but his rebellious streak manifested in horses. Those beautiful creatures that he wanted to breed and care for. He was also _very_ rugged. The rancher-slash-cowboy look of his, with the checkered tops hugging his slender body, dusty jeans, and the occasional cowboy hat. No wonder she was so gone on him.

 

She still missed him. Still often wished he hadn’t been taken from her so soon, but it also pained her to realize that she’s forgotten how it felt to be in his arms, forgotten how his lips felt on hers, forgotten even how his eyes had stared fondly at her face whenever she smiled at him from over the fence. She wished so often that she could hold on to those memories like a picture she could frame and summon at will. Forgetting felt like a betrayal, because if it had been the other way around, she would have liked her hugs and kisses to be remembered, at least, if not entirely missed.

 

“Hello! Earth to Betty!” Kevin cried, heading over to one of the workstations. There were buckets of herbs that still needed chopping and Kevin always enjoyed helping out with that. She joined him there and putting their gloves on, they each took a chopping board and started working in their batches of herbs.

 

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I was just thinking of Trev.”

 

Kevin smiled, but didn’t comment on it. “What’s he here for? Business or leisure?”

 

“Bit of both,” she replied. “He said he wanted to try writing here in these quiet surroundings, which is a nice way of indicating that nothing distracting ever happens around here.”

 

Kevin did not disagree.

 

“He’s also doing research for his book,” she continued. “He wanted to know how it was to live in a farm.”

 

Kevin scowled. “Well, he should be awake then.”

 

“It’s his first day,” she said, sighing. “He had a rough night and honestly, I’d like my guest to just lie back and enjoy being here without being judged, thanks.”

 

“Rough night?”

 

Betty told him the story of how he arrived and what kept him. She also told him about Jughead’s seeming appreciation of her B&B and the personalization she’d put effort into.

 

Jughead hadn’t told her why he was practically a day late, but that was none of her business.

 

They worked on making the soaps all morning, mixing vats of her compound and pouring the mixture into her signature molds. It was barely nine thirty when she was startled to find Jughead standing by her barn doors looking fresh and ready for the day. He had a mug in his hand and she could only assume he had found her pot of coffee in her kitchen. She was very glad to see that he had been comfortable enough to find it and serve himself.

 

He wore a different pair of jeans, and his top consisted of a blue flannel blouse, pushed up at the sleeves and open at front. His tattoos from his elbow down were evident and sent another involuntary shudder through her. What was it about her and tattoos? He had a white tank underneath his flannel and on his head was a crown beanie. Odd but strangely becoming.

 

He looked devastatingly good.

 

“Good morning!” she cried cheerfully. “You’re up early!” She wiped her hands on a rag and slung her long blonde braid over her back to get down carefully from her ladder.

 

She bunched the long skirt she had on to climb down but was surprised to suddenly find Jughead there, offering his hand up for assistance.

 

“Oh!” she gasped, a bit too flustered to shoo him off. She took his offered hand. It was warm, strong, and sturdy. “Th-thanks!”

 

Her brown cowgirl boots made a racket on the metal steps and she wondered momentarily when she suddenly got so ungraceful.

 

She reached the bottom of her steps with an embarrassed sigh, smoothing out the white sweetheart’s shirt she had on. “Sorry, I’m usually not this much of a klutz,” she muttered, simultaneously sorry to have to let his hand go.

 

He looked at her with that ghost of a smile that she never could quite catch. “You’re fine.”

 

Someone cleared their throat and Betty remembered she hadn’t introduced Kevin yet.

 

He seemed mildly impatient, his eyebrow arched and surreptitiously checking Jughead out. She valiantly tried to prevent a grin from breaking her face.

 

“I’ve been meaning to introduce you to my farmhands,” she said, lightly touching his arm and gesturing to the side towards Kevin. “This is Kevin. He’s been a good friend to me and this farm since its inception. He’s a carpenter by trade—one of the best in the tristate area, and when he doesn’t have big construction projects, he works here. Kevin, this is our guest, Jughead Jones.”

 

Jughead turned and extended a hand easily. “Nice to meet you, Kevin.”

 

Kevin shook it, his gaze never leaving Jughead’s face. “A pleasure, Jughead. My, my. You _are_ tall.”

 

Betty widened her eyes at Kevin warningly but schooled her face back to neutral once Jughead stepped back to regard them both.

 

“Yeah. If you need anything taken down from high places, I’m your guy.”

 

Kevin grinned. “Betty always has stuff like that to do. She’s totally useless around here.”

 

She slapped Kevin’s shoulder with the back of her hand. “No, _you’re_ useless. Honestly.”

 

They had this constant running joke about who was more useless, which was ridiculous because they always had something to do on the farm.

 

They chuckled at each other, but Betty could see that Kevin was mildly furious at how she hadn’t told him that Jughead had Leonardo diCaprio good looks, circa 1990. She grinned back at him, smugly.

 

“So Betty tells me you’ve written and published two books and that now you’re writing another one,” Kevin said. “I’ve never met anyone who can live off his writing before.”

 

She rolled her eyes at him but made sure Jughead didn’t see.

 

“I couldn’t believe it, either,” Jughead muttered, his face flaming. “Kinda feels like I just fuck around for about a year, drinking copious amounts of coffee, while I try to get a book out of my brain.”

 

There was that potty mouth that she found so strangely appealing. “Well, it seems to work. Let’s not change the formula. I won’t be the farm you wrote your flop in.”

 

That made him cock a smile. “What I consider a flop and what my publisher considers a flop are two different things.”

 

“Spoken like a true artist,” Kevin said. “So you can totally live off publishing one book a year?”

 

Betty shot Kevin a scolding look. That question sounded rude, but Jughead didn’t appear to mind it so much.

 

“I _don’t_ publish a book a year. It’s a book every one and a half to two years. So if I don’t spend anything beyond room and board, and the occasional food truck craving, for a couple of years, then yeah, maybe,” he replied, chuckling. “I have dailies in newspapers and magazines. That’s what I consider my steady income.”

 

“That is totally fascinating,” Kevin remarked. “So you have to write all day, everyday, and not just for your book.”

 

Jughead nodded. “Pretty much.”

 

Kevin threw out a few more publishing questions until his curiosity seemed satisfied. Finally, he said, “Betty, do you need me to take over while you make breakfast?”

 

She was about to thank Kevin because yes, she had to make breakfast for Jughead, but Jughead shook his head.

 

“Please, don’t let me interrupt. I was supposed to wake up at 10:30. I got up earlier to watch you guys tend the farm.”

 

She tilted her gaze up at him fondly. “Well, you had to have gotten up earlier for that! This stuff isn’t farm work, exactly.”

 

“Oh.”

 

She chuckled gently. “But you’ll have plenty of opportunities to catch up some other time. Let me introduce you to Farmer John.”

 

Kevin gasped. “Oh, please, Betty. Can I go? You know I love it when you introduce Farmer John to new people!”

 

She cast him a mildly chastising look. “Kevin! It’s not nice to make fun.”

 

“I don’t make fun! To his face. I’ll make it up to him, I promise.”

 

She rolled her eyes but said, “Come on.”

 

She unhooked a cowboy hat from the coat hanger by the barn doors and tucked it on her head as she led the way to where the goat pens were.

 

“So Farmer John…?” Jughead prompted.

 

“He takes care of my goats,” she said. “They are what keeps this entire farm going. We take their milk and turn it into bath products and my signature cheeses. Farmer John is a godsend.”

 

“What am I, chopped liver?” Kevin cried.

 

“I couldn’t do without Kevin, of course. I _love_ him passionately.”

 

“That’s better!” Kevin huffed, crossing his arms over his chest as he stomped.

 

She exchanged amused glances with Jughead.

 

“Farmer John is 100% dedicated to the goats. Kevin helps me with the rest of the farm. When I need extra hands, Kevin rounds up the extra help. They’re mostly LGBT youth, too. But I welcome all kids and people.”

 

“This farm is a magnet for gay people,” Kevin explains. “We all love how fabulous Betty is. Apart from being the Martha Stewart of Riverdale, she looks like Scarlett Johansson.”

 

She felt her face warm. “Kevin! Don’t be such a queen!”

 

“She has a big heart and she loves people for who they are! There, is that better?”

 

Her face still flaming, she nodded. “Better. Honest to God, Kev.”

 

Jughead smirked, his eyes never leaving her face. “I see it.”

 

Kevin narrowed his eyes, but an evil smile was blossoming from his lips. “Right? I told you, Betty.”

 

“God,” she muttered, embarrassed. She was going to hear it from Kevin, for sure. She didn’t like being teased about her guests. Sure, Jughead was attractive and quite frankly her type, but he was a _guest_ , which basically meant he was passing through and would be gone and done after a foreseeable period of time. She did not want to be caught in some stupid situation where she would get _lonelier_ after a guest leaves. Guests were supposed to invigorate her and tide her over until the next guest came around. “How would you feel if I teased you about looking like Matt Damon?”

 

“By all means, tease away!”

 

That didn’t go as planned, but whatever. She sighed in frustration and climbed the rung of the goat fence. She took her hat and waved it overhead to Farmer John in the distance.

 

Farmer John looked up and waved back, starting to walk towards them.

 

Farmer John looked exactly what a farmer should look like. Overalls, a plaid blouse, rotund in the middle, close cropped beard, and balding at the top.

 

“Hi there, Farmer John! I wanted to introduce you to our guest,” she said cheerfully when he got within earshot.

 

“Is this him?” Farmer John said in his mild tone. He extended a hand and Jughead took it.

 

“Jughead Jones,” he said.

 

Farmer John arched an eyebrow. “Good to meet you, Jughead. I’m Farmer John. You’re a handsome young man, aren’t you? Our Betty here is single.”

 

 _And so it begins,_ she thought, wanting so much to melt through the ground. “Farmer John, how many times do I have to tell you that you’re not old enough to make that schtick charming.” She turns to Jughead. “He does this to all my male guests. One time, he said the same thing to a seventy year old man.”

 

“He was single and cute,” Farmer John said defensively. “Age doesn’t matter, you know!”

 

“It does when he’s old enough to be my grandfather.”

 

Kevin scoffed. “And honestly, it would’ve taken a gallon of viagra--”

 

“ _Kevin!”_ she cried, mortified. “Jesus Christ!” This was tremendously awkward.

 

“Like who could afford that ish?! If his heart doesn’t give out first.”

 

“Oh. My. God.” She covered her cherry red face. “Why do I even put up with you all!”

 

Jughead chuckled, sipping his coffee, but he said nothing, seemingly content with watching and listening to all this.

 

She looked at him. “You seem to find this awful behavior hilarious.”

 

“I’m just observing,” he said, leaning casually on the fence and looking up at her.

 

She gave a loud sigh and hopped off her ledge. “Farmer John,” she began, pointedly. “How are our goats doing?”

 

“Wonderfully,” he gushed. “They were so happy this morning when they realized I’d mixed fresh celery in their feed. It’s such a treat for them when you give them the surplus from your farm, Betty, dear. Mama Gina and Mama Maybel are coming along fine. They’ll be giving birth soon, so I’ve got my birth plan all written out…” True to form, Farmer John started to cry and sob. “I’m so proud of them, Betty! They are going to bring healthy new kids into this world! They were practically just kids themselves a few months ago, and now look at them!”

 

Betty fished a packet of tissues from her pocket and offered him some. She always had some handy because of Farmer John.

 

“Thank you, dear,” Farmer John whispered, taking a tissue and wiping his eyes with it. “You understand, of course. Unlike some people.” He shot a daggered, tear-filled look at Kevin. “He thinks I’m a drama queen. Always making fun of me.”

 

“Kevin,” Betty crooned in a scolding tone.

 

“You know the bad guy always gets the best lines,” Kevin said with a mischievous grin.

 

Farmer John lifted his nose. “Well, I deserve more respect from the likes of you. Those goats make the best milk because they’re happy, and you know that milk is the life of this farm.” He made circles in the air with his fingers. “Which funds the salary of your sorry ass! I’ll be going back to my babies now. It was nice to meet you, Jughead.”  He stomped off just as another sob rose from his throat.

 

“Is he going to be alright?” Jughead asked, real concern on his face.

 

“Ooh, that was new! That milk being the life of the farm thing! I knew he was going to go off the rails!” Kevin gasped. “I love it!”

 

“He’s fine,” Betty replied. “He’s very passionate and an excellent goatherd. I would triple his salary if he threatens to leave.”

 

Kevin scowled. “What! I’ve never heard you say that about me.”

 

“Kevin,” she said in her sweetest tone. She put a hand on his arm and batted her eyelashes at him. “You will _never_ leave me.”  

 

“You blonde bitch,” he huffed, dramatically. “That may be true, but would it kill you to lie to me?”

 

She stifled a smile. “I’m going inside to make Jughead’s waffles. Would you like to sit with us for Second Breakfastses?”

 

“Best not. This beautiful body doesn’t get this way by itself. Eating your food is sure to get me another 45 minutes of pain in the gym, _ma chere._ You go on and I’ll finish up in the soap factory.”

 

“Thank you, Kevin,” she said in a sing song tone as he walked away.

 

He waved over his shoulder as he went.

 

She put her hat back on her head and turned to Jughead.

 

He was watching her intently, and his piercing blue eyes sent a pleasant shudder down her spine.

 

“Your farm is not like the others,” he said.

 

“Oh,” she began, walking. “It is. We just have more interesting characters. That’s not even all of them. Farmer John and Kevin are my regulars, but every once in awhile we have need of specialists and they can get pretty wacky. But give it a week or so. At this point, everyone’s excited by the new guy. You can probably say we’re all putting our best foot forward. It will settle down, I promise.”

 

He smirked, striding in step with her. “So let’s talk about a couple of things here. Do you always make Lord of the Rings references and did you just say you were making waffles?”

 

She grinned. “I am a fan of Peter Jackson’s LOTR and yes, I am making Belgian waffles. And country fried chicken.”

 

He clutched his heart dramatically. “Fried chicken for breakfast? Say it again. Slowly, this time.”

 

She laughed, feeling a blush rise in her cheeks at his faux sexy tone.

 

“You know,” he added after a brief pause. “Only true fans call it LOTR.”

 

That, she knew, and really, when one lives in a farm where hardly anything terribly interesting happens, one read thick tomes about adventuring Hobbits and maybe watched the movies that were made about them as soon as they became available for streaming. “Um, I live in a farm in the middle of nowhere. Of course I geek out on stuff like that.”

 

He cocked a grin. “Of course? Well, yeah, of course!”

 

There was a glint in his eyes, as if he liked what she said, and the fact that she was _so there_ for it was sending alarm bells through her brain. The emergency brakes on her feelings needed to be applied before the rest of her started to run with it, but she couldn’t resist a bit of fun banter.  

 

“Best foot forward, remember?” she quipped.

 

He chuckled and shoved his hands in his jean pockets. “If it makes any difference, you don’t have to go crazy on the best foot forward thing with me. I’m pretty low maintenance. Easy to please.”

 

“Oh, are you?” she quipped, tilting a shoulder before she could catch herself, and then she was mortified with herself two seconds later. Flirting with the guests was a total no-no.

 

He didn’t seem to think anything was wrong with it, however. He smirked, turned, and started walking backwards in front of her. “Or maybe it’s just you who doesn’t have to try so hard, as I am already so duly impressed.” He winked.

 

_I’m dead._

 

She gave him a dimpled smile as he fell back behind her, biting her lower lip in an effort to contain the burgeoning crush she was developing.

 

She walked up the steps to her house, intent to knock his socks of with her fried chicken and waffles.

 

**************************

 

He wondered if describing her skin as sun-kissed didn’t make him a complete hack.

 

Not that he would write that shit down where evidence could be submitted. But he liked to check himself, because self-awareness was what prevented douchebaggery, and if there was anything he feared more than loneliness, it was turning into a douchebag and not knowing it.

 

It was a surprisingly easy slide for many published authors he knew and he didn’t want to be one of them.

 

In this idyllic farm setting, however, he didn’t have much fear about becoming the dreaded D-bag. There were enough people here who seemed primed to call him out on shit like that, if their overall down-to-earth attitudes didn’t head it off in the first place.

 

No, that wasn’t the problem in Riverdale Farms. The trick was to control his raging crush on its hostess and to not turn into a disgusting sap who was seriously thinking of giving his leading character a blonde and sassy love interest.

 

That was his struggle now, made more difficult by watching said hostess from his vantage point on the front porch. She was a busy figure floating about, going back and forth between her farmhands.

 

The cowboy hat had stayed, much to his secret delight, and that braid on her shoulder was kind of driving him crazy. He wanted to loosen it and let her hair fall free.

 

He could, of course, just remove himself from the sweet influence of Betty by heading back to his room, but there lied the conundrum.

 

As comfortable as his bedroom was, he needed to smoke and drink coffee as he wrote. He had decided to settle himself on one of the porch chairs, feet up and ankles crossed on the trellis. He had his computer on his lap and the ambient noise of “not farm work” was supposedly perfect for his focus.

 

After Betty’s fantastic southern breakfast, complete with biscuits, butter-maple syrup, eggs, and sausages (all of which he ate), he figured going outside was his best bet at dodging a carb-induced coma.

 

Only now he couldn’t stop watching her. She was fascinating, because she was like some hidden treasure that he had stumbled upon purely by happenstance.

 

He felt that if she were out in the world, in the middle of the city, she wouldn’t even breathe in his direction. She would be miles ahead of him, and he would perhaps be stalking her on Twitter and Tumble.

 

All the way out here, she was his hostess; she was Googling him; she was making sure he had every comfort.

 

There was something very unreal about this picture.

 

He had read her blog last night. Not all of it, but many of her entries. She was a breathlessly inspiring writer. Like she wrote the way a muse would, letting her words cultivate creativity.  He was never a crafty, DIY kind of guy, but reading her blog made him want to buy an entire antique fair and stylishly distress every wooden piece he could find. And the recipes--his mouth watered before he even got to the ingredients. It was no wonder her guests had nothing but good things to say about her B&B. She was a domestic goddess.

 

The barn doors of her soap factory slid open and the sound shook Jughead out of his reverie. Betty ambled out hauling a couple of baskets along with her. They looked heavy.

 

Jughead got up, setting his laptop aside to go and help her.

 

“Oh, don’t,” she said as he came over and took both baskets from her. “You’re guest!”

 

They _were_ heavy, so he shot her a chastising look. “I am filled with fried chicken and waffle fuel. It won’t kill me to do some heavy lifting.”

 

She sighed, smiling. “Well, thank you. I usually ask Kevin to help but he’s elbow deep in curds.”

 

“And we can’t have his elbows otherwise occupied,” he said, carrying the baskets across the grounds as they walked up to the porch steps. “These going inside the house?”

 

“No, out here on the porch is fine. This is where I usually package my soaps, unless I’m disturbing you by being here.”

 

“I should be so lucky,” he drawled. “I’ll stop smoking.”

 

“Please don’t on account of me,” she said, settling on the seat across him.

 

He smirked, but didn’t argue. He didn’t like blowing smoke in anyone’s face, least of all hers. He really should be quitting, anyway.

 

“Can I help?” he asked.

 

She shook her head. “Keep doing what you’re doing and I’ll be quiet. I find doing this therapeutic. I never tire of it.”

 

He shrugged and picked his laptop back up. He swung his legs back up on the railing and focused on the words on his screen.

 

True to her word, Betty worked wordlessly, picking up a minty green bar of soap and folding them onto a swath of monogrammed wax paper. Her fingers worked with expert precision, making folds and crimps that packaged the bar of soap snuggly into the paper. She then looped some soft twine around the wrapped bar, tied it, snipped it, then she secured a pre-assembled gift-tag like label where the twine met.

 

It looked twice as expensive as any bar of soap he’d ever used.

 

She put it aside then did it again. She was so good at this that he was mesmerized by it.  

 

She smiled, and it wasn’t even a big smile. It was close lipped and tilted, but it dazzled him. “I’m sorry, am I distracting you?”

 

_Yes. Yes you are._

 

“Not in a bad way,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s soothing, what you’re doing. The repetitive motion is pretty precise.”

 

“I’ve done this thousands of times. I don’t even think about it anymore.” She started with a bar again and kept talking as she did it. “But I like it because it’s the result of the hard work of this farm. Farmer John and Kevin get shares. It’s their product, too.”

 

“I remember you telling me that business is good.”

 

“Very.”

 

“So did the soap come before the B&B?” She hadn’t been clear about that the first night they sat down to talk, though he could probably guess.

 

She shook her head. “Nope. The B&B came first. I love this house and I’ve been making it beautiful since the day I moved in, but it’s huge, especially after Trev--” she paused “--my husband died. So I set up a B&B just so it wouldn’t be empty all the time. But I didn’t have a regular influx of guests and it takes money to run a seven bedroom home. Even if the house and property are paid for, I had to find other ways to make money. So I sold off the horses, cattle, and pigs. I was not a horse breeder like Trev. And I knew nothing about raising animals for food. I went with what I knew: design and DIY. I always liked making things, and soaps were my favorite, so I thought that since I had a farm, I would care for goats and make the soaps. I saw the opportunity for cheese, too so I did that as well. I couldn’t care for animals to slaughter, but if I didn’t have to kill them, I was good.” She paused. “I realize that’s a little hypocritical since we eat and serve meat on this farm, but it isn’t the business I want to be in. If I couldn’t bring myself to kill for that product, then I’d be bankrupt.”

 

He grinned. “You don’t have to justify meat eating to me. I’m a burger guy. It’s my favorite food, bar none.”

 

Her eyes sparkled. “Is it? I love making a good burger. It’s simple and you can hardly screw it up.”

 

“You’ll be surprised at how many do.”

 

“You see, a burger is personal, right? Barring the fundamentals, people say there’s no right or wrong way. I completely disagree. The wrong way is telling people what they’d like to eat. The right way is figuring who you’re serving the food to, and that’s particularly true for the food we grew up with--a burger, mac ‘n’ cheese, peanut butter and jelly, a grilled cheese sandwich...”

 

He bit his lip to contain the smile breaking from it. This was the sort of thing she wrote on her blog. She grabbed on to the emotional underpinnings of things, exposing the bonds people formed with things and food. It was amazing. “What kind of burger do you think I’d like?”

 

“Oh, you’re traditional through and through,” she points out without hesitation. “Basic soft bun with a crunchy middle, three-quarters of an inch thick beef patty, medium cooked, no fancy flavors, just the beef, maybe some cheese--I may have some wiggle room there for what type I’d let you have. Maybe some mustard. Maybe some slivers of onion--depends on your mood. No other veggies. Basic thick cut fries on the side. Ketchup and mayo optional.”

 

His mouth hung open as he laughed. “Holy shit, it’s like voodoo! How did you figure all that out?”

 

She tossed him a look like _please._ “Leather jacket? Old music? Crime novels? C’mon.”

 

“Here I thought I had my moody, mysterious vibe down pat. I guess I’ve been living a lie.”

 

She chuckled. “You can keep your secrets all you want, but when it comes to the food you like and the comfort you prefer, I will do what voodoo I have to do to figure you out. Just call me Mama Betty, the Blonde Witch of Riverdale.”

 

“There _is_ something utterly bewitching about you.”

 

Her cheeks turned pink, her eyes shifting to the work of her hands. “I do make magical Belgian Waffles,” she joked.

 

Jughead was pretty sure it _wasn’t_ the waffles, but he wasn’t going to argue. He was by no means good at this flirting business. He liked _talking_. He liked having conversations. He’d never had a girlfriend that he had to “pick up.” They were never charmed at the first meeting. He was commonly friend-zoned first, then he grew on them, in varying degrees. But he was never a ladies man. So all of this flirting he was doing was coming from some unknown place, some corner in his psyche that he never knew existed until Betty, with some magical, mystical key, had unlocked.

 

She went back to her soap and he had to tell himself to at least fucking try to do some writing while she was there, because if he couldn’t, he would have to hole up in his room and get inspiration from the view of the river.

 

He went back to his laptop and decided he would describe his new character as _sun-kissed,_ and fuck it if that was a hack’s way of describing skin. It was a block and he just had to get it out of his system. He could scrap it later.  

 

The words followed from there. It streamed and got into a cadence, easy and familiar, like fingers folding and crimping just right to get to a perfect rectangle of packaging, like deft loops and twists that secured the twine and kept it safe and beautiful.

  
*******  


In the three days that Jughead had so far stayed at Riverdale Farms, he still hasn’t managed to get up early enough to see “actual” farm work.  

 

He couldn’t argue with the fact that writing was getting done, however.  The routine, so far, was that he’d spend a couple or so hours enjoying the company of the hostess, watching her cook, manufacture her soap, process her cheese, and then he’d settle on the porch with her and write several thousand words.

 

He would take smoking breaks, settling on the other side of the porch or outside of it, depending on where the wind carried the smoke.

 

She never started conversation with him, perhaps because she thought she would be imposing if she did, so he always started the conversation for them. He wished she wouldn’t treat him so much like a guest anymore.

Sometimes he’d turn over moments in his head, when she’d tilt a shoulder or when her so-called sun-kissed skin would turn pink at the things he said. He took way too much delight in how his words could affect her, but he always ended that thought with a self-deprecating laugh.

 

_Grow the fuck up._

 

On the third night, Archie Andrews called him on facetime.

 

When Jughead accepted the facetime, he was met with the scowling face of his best friend.

 

“What the fuck, dude? Nothing for three days straight since that last text? You’re on a farm, not a goddamn monastery!”

 

Jughead snorted. Archie was top bare. He almost always was. Like the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Archie Andrews was proud of his washboard abs and perfect pecs. “Put a shirt on, for fuck’s sake.”

 

“Ronnie likes it when I walk around shirtless.”

 

“Did not need to know that.”

 

On cue, Veronica appeared over Archie’s shoulder. “Hi Jug. We miss you.”

 

“Like hell you do. We’ve had two week stretches that we didn’t see each other.”

 

She rolled her eyes. “But you at least call every other day, me or Arch. What gives? You’ve never gone three days straight without a single peep.”

 

It was true. He always found some way to communicate with either Archie or Veronica. It was those years they took him in when he was homeless, when no one else would, and they were to him his siblings more than his own sister was.

 

“Sorry,” he said with a sigh. “I’ve been writing.”

 

She scowled. “That means nothing. You’ve gone on writing binges and you still always manage to talk to us. What the fuck is going on?”

 

He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was Betty. Maybe it was farm life. There was just such a sense of living off the earth around here that it almost felt like using his cellphone to reach out all the way in Manhattan meant that he had to burst the blissful bubble.

 

“Nothing is going on,” Jughead said. “Maybe that’s the point. I got nothing to report.” _That_ was a lie, but he got a sick satisfaction making Archie and Veronica work for it.

 

“Jug,” Archie said, taking over the phone’s entire screen to direct his gaze. “You once texted me for hours and hours to describe how boring and horrible it was at Jury Duty.”

 

So maybe he _really_ wasn’t as mysterious and moody as he thought he was. Apparently, everyone he knew, knew _him._

 

He sighed. He wasn’t going to win this battle. “Fine. So this place my editor sent me to--”

 

“Still can’t believe you didn’t go to Belize,” Veronica interrupted in the background.

 

Archie shushed her gently. “Go on, man.”

 

Jughead did. “This farm is in the middle of nowhere but it’s amazing. The house looks like it came right off the pages of a magazine. Magical things come out of its kitchen. I swear I’ve never been fed so well my entire life. The place is kept in order by two gay farmhands and the hostess…” his voice trailed off, trying to find the right words. “She’s something else.”

 

Archie’s jaw dropped. “A _girl?_ You fucking ditched us for a _girl?”_

 

Jughead frowned. _“Woman,_ okay? She is a woman.”

 

Veronica gasped, pushing Archie aside. “Seriously, Jug? That’s why you haven’t been talking to us?” She looked delighted, however, unlike Archie who was making flailing gestures behind her.

 

“She’s not the entire reason,” Jughead said, defensively. “It’s this whole place. I just feel like the peace and quiet has lulled and settled me. Like I’m high on the couch and I just don’t want to get up and do anything. But I _have_ done a lot of writing. I didn’t mean to ditch you guys, but it’s not like you don’t have each other to occupy your time.”

 

“Dude!” Archie cried. “That’s not the point. Who am I going to talk about Game of Thrones with? Not _this_ lady.”

 

“Like I have time to watch your geeky show that flashes a million boobs a minute for its fans.”

 

“It’s gritty nudity, okay?” Jughead said, grinning at his own stupid argument. “I get your point, Arch, and I’m sorry I haven’t been contacting you or Ronnie. I will do better next time. Just--I’ve been great. This is the best thing I’ve done in a long time, so I’m just enjoying it.”

 

Ronnie’s hand pushed Archie’s face out of the way. “Aw, Jug, of course you’re entitled to have this, uninterrupted. It’s just us being needy. You know we’re clingy. I don’t think we’ve lived a day without you since high school.”

 

That was a bit of an exaggeration, but he got where Ronnie was coming from.  He was a constant in their lives, and they worried about him, and watched out for him often. It was probably like parents and kids--when the kids didn’t need their parents anymore, the parents got antsy.

 

“I promise I’m fine,” he said. “And I’ll stay in touch better while I’m here.”

 

“Good,” she replied. Her face broke out in a smile. “So is she cute?”

 

Jughead didn’t need to ask about whom she was referring to. “God Ronnie, she’s fucking gorgeous.”

 

Veronica squealed for whatever reason.

 

“Betcha she’s blonde,” Archie chimed in.

 

Jughead rolled his eyes. “Arch.”

 

“Well, is she?” Veronica asked.

 

 _“Yes,_ but if she _weren’t--”_

 

“Leggy? Nice ass?” Archie went on.

 

Jughead was getting the tiniest bit annoyed at how predictable he was turning out to be. “What the fuck, man? Did you shrink yourself to microscopic size and crawl into my brain to get all this information?”

 

“I’ve known you since we were five, bro. No amount of you dating brunettes will convince me that you’ve let go of the dream of that Hitchcock blonde. Is she the one making magic from the kitchen?”

 

Jughead pursed his lips mutinously.

 

Archie screamed with laughter. “You are _toast,_ man.”

 

“She reads,” Jughead pointed out emphatically. “You know I like a girl who reads.”

 

“I am so tempted to drive over there and meet this magical creature,” Veronica said.

 

That made his stomach churn in alarm. “Don’t you dare, Ronnie! You know I need to keep my writing spaces sacred. It needs to be _my_ place until I let you in.  We’ve talked about this.”

 

She rolled her eyes and blew a breath through the corner of her lips. “Fine. Yeah, we’ve talked about this. God, Jug. Sometimes you could be so _weird.”_

 

“I wear the same beanie on a constant basis for no apparent reason. What do you think?”

 

“So, are you in love?”

 

“What? No,” Jughead said hastily. “It’s just a crush, Ronnie. She gives me butterflies in my stomach and shit, but it’s all harmless fun. I admire her, but I’m probably going to keep it platonic.”

 

“Oh, yeah?”

 

“Ronnie.”

 

“I’m just saying. Fun does not mean celibate. Archie’s right. It’s a farm, not a monastery.”

 

“She’s been through a lot,” Jughead said, meaning it.

 

“Hey, so long as you both understand what you’re getting into, it’s all good, right?”

 

Jughead had a feeling she wasn’t the type to do casual, because God knows _he_ didn’t do casual. His worse relationships, at the very least, came from a place of intent, even if it was just on an intellectual level, hardly scratching the surface of emotional. The perks of that, of course, was that he’d never had a bad breakup and he was in good terms with all his exes--well, most of them, at least. Unfortunately, that also meant he hasn’t really known romantic love. It didn’t bother him, though. It wasn’t a priority. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to put himself out there that way. It wasn’t worth the risk.

 

“Nah,” Jughead said. “This is not about that. She’s a great host and she’s extremely fascinating. I can sit and talk with her all day.”

 

Veronica’s eyebrow arched, but she said nothing. She merely nodded. “Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Let us know how you’re doing in a couple of days, okay?”

 

“Sure thing. Thanks for checking in, guys.”

 

“Anytime, dude,” Archie said.

 

They said their final goodbyes and ended the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who have gotten this far, I want to thank you. I appreciate you taking the time. This is something I truly love to do--it is my favorite thing next to watching Riverdale episodes.


	3. Raspberry Refresh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. There ought to be a reason Jughead has those great arms and shoulders, in spite of the fact that he eats a TON of food.  
> 2\. I am turning up the heat in this chapter.

_Excerpt from_ **_Harvest to Home_ ** **,** **_Raspberry Refresh_ **

 

_“On a hot summer day, consider a delicious alternative to Lemonade. A nice cold Raspberry Iced Tea is refreshing and flavorful.  It has a relatively simple set of ingredients, but if you want to take it to the next level, it requires patience and a careful selection of ingredients. The infusion of flavor is a process, applying heat, time, and cold._

 

_When you do something different, you find yourself investing in efforts you never had to think of before.  Where lemonade is just about squeezing the juice out of a lemon, a fresh and sweet Raspberry Ice Tea is more involved, from the raspberries you’ll use, to the kind of tea you’ll infuse the drink with. You heat it up, then you cool it down, then you make it ice cold for that refreshing burst._

 

_Virgin or spiked, you’ll want it to be thirst quenching. Here’s how I make them….”_

 

_\--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast _

 

Betty greeted the morning like she always did, with a smile on her lips and a bounce in her step. At least, that’s what she aspired to.

 

Her mother bred her to be perfect from the moment she opened her eyes in the morning to the moment she laid her head in bed at night, but there was no breeding out the desire to sleep longer, or the tendency to be cranky right out of bed.

 

When Betty had to wake up at 4:30 in the morning, first she had to curse her alarm clock, then she had to hit snooze on it. She’d sleep through the 9 minutes the snooze gave her and then wake up again, cursing even more. This time, however, she would actually push herself off bed, moan her way to the bathroom, and splash her face with cold water until she was fully awake.

 

Only _then_ could she manage that hint of smile and perhaps the tiniest of hops.

 

She would brush her hair, tie it into a braid, and open her closets as she stood in front of it in her underwear.

 

There wasn’t a pastel cardigan in sight and that fact still warmed her heart. When she got out from beneath her mother’s thumb, she realized how her wardrobe was reflective of her mother’s relentless control. So when she began to think outside of her mother’s regime, her wardrobe was one of first things that began to change, and among that, her pastel cardigans went first. Her tastes in clothing began to come into its own from there.

 

Her colors still leaned light, but beside the more practical outfits that any farm girl should have, there were spaghetti strap dresses and bold flower prints that showed skin, denims and other bold fabrics with feminine flounces that showed cleavage, and over-sized sweaters and short skirts that showed leg.

 

She grabbed a pair of jeans, a plaid shirt, and socks for her work boots. When she was fully dressed, she looked into her mirror and found herself smoothing a finger over her eyebrow.

 

Her eyes hovered over the lip gloss on her dresser.

 

_By the time he wakes up, your lip gloss will be long gone._

 

She frowned, shaking her head at her own absurdity. She grabbed the lip gloss and put it on, stubbornly telling herself that this wasn’t for Jughead Jones, this was for herself, so yes, if it was long gone before he woke, then too bad for him. Or her.

 

Or whatever. It didn’t matter.

 

Lip gloss properly applied, she marched out of her bedroom, tiptoed past Jughead’s, and proceeded to head for the stairs. She was just turning the corner when a door opened along the hallway and she stopped, startled.

 

“Betty?” came Jughead’s voice as he peeked out, first in one direction, then the other. When he saw her at the stairs, he smirked. “Morning.”

 

She was caught a little bit off guard. “M-Morning. You’re up early.”

 

He pressed his lips together. “Kind of about time. I came here for research and I keep oversleeping the research. Besides, if I don’t start working my butt off, I’m going to start packing in pounds with all the good food you’re feeding me.”

 

She finally recovered from her surprise and she smiled, realizing that she was glad to have his company this early in the morning. “Well, come on down, then.”

 

He stepped out in a fresh pair of jeans, a black shirt, and his boots. She remembered that these were his clothes when he first arrived at the farm, except that now, they were freshly laundered and dry. The shirt fit him well, loose enough to look comfortable, but just the right size to cling to some of his definition.

 

She was definitely awake now.

 

“Let’s get some coffee going,” she said, pushing her sleeves up as she walked through the kitchen. She started to prep the grinder, and just when she turned to grab the jar with the coffee beans, Jughead was there with the jar in his hands.

 

She blinked, astonished.

 

“I’ve watched you do this after lunch over the last few days,” he said. “I can make the coffee. I know you have other things to do.”

 

She was mildly impressed. “You’ve watched me do this.”

 

“Research,” he said. He side stepped her to get to the grinder and she watched him put in the right amount of beans, grind it the right amount of time, and thereafter doing each and every step of the process in exactly the same way.

 

“Don’t you have anything better to do than wait for me to screw up?” he teased, getting up close as he reached up behind her to get the bottle of vinegar.

 

She felt her face warm at his closeness but didn’t flinch at his words. “I wasn’t--”

 

He smirked, moving away from her to go back to the coffee making.

 

She sighed, wishing that it hadn’t felt so cold where he had left a void. “Fine. And for the record, it was more curiosity than anything else.”

 

“How am I doing?” he asked.

 

“Pretty good so far,” she said, giving him a tight lipped smile.

 

“Thank you. That’s high praise in my book.”

 

She chuckled, finally turning away to attend to breakfast. She pulled out some eggs, butter, a lemon, canadian bacon, spices, some parsley, and some frozen English muffins.

 

“Made these the other night,” she said, gesturing to the muffins. “Thought I might make something nice out of it today.”

 

Jughead looked confused. “You made these _at night_?”

 

She nodded as she started to crack some eggs, separating the whites from the yolks. “Sometimes, I couldn’t sleep, so I make things when that happens.”

 

He chuckled. “English muffins? Well, that’s one way of doing things. Next time you couldn’t sleep, come to my room.”

 

She didn’t quite know what to say about that, busying herself with popping some bread in the toaster.

 

His face turned instantly red. “God, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just saying I’m a night owl, so I’d be awake and we can keep each other company…” He paled this time. “That didn’t sound better, did it?”

 

Finally, she gave a soft giggle. “It’s alright. I get what you mean.”

 

“Right,” he said. “Coffee?”

 

“Yes, please.”  

 

He poured her a cup and brought out the cream and sugar for her. She arched an eyebrow but all he did was grin. She made her coffee just the way she liked it and savored it for several seconds.

 

She realized that Jughead was watching her, probably waiting for her reaction. She smiled. “It’s really good, Jug.”  She blushed at her own casual nicknaming of him. She hoped he didn’t read too much into it.

 

He pumped a fist. “Yes. Points for Jones.”

 

She rolled her eyes, mostly relieved that he didn’t call her out for the nickname.

 

“Anything else I should be doing right now?”

 

She thought for a second she should resist. She never made guests do work, but he seemed eager to help and he _was_ awake, so he might as well be useful. “If you can grab a pan from the cabinet below and melt about a cup of butter, that would be great.”

 

“I can do that.”

 

Betty was going to make a nice hollandaise to go with some eggs benedict, Canadian bacon, and English Muffins.

 

She gave careful instructions to Jughead as she worked her side of the kitchen, squeezing some lemon into her separated yolks, and whisking them vigorously. Jughead helped pour the butter in with the eggs as she whisked them to the right, viscous consistency. He seemed fascinated by it all, the changing composition of the eggs. When the hollandaise was seasoned to taste, she asked Jughead to pop the muffins in the oven as she cooked the canadian bacon and the eggs benedict.

 

She kept bustling, but she told Jughead to sit while she served him with some butter and toast with homemade jam.

 

“I swear, I was looking at you the entire time. When did you make toast?” he said, gasping.

 

She tried not to latch on too much at him looking at her “the entire time”. “I’ve got mad kitchen ninja skills. Don’t you know that already?”

 

As he sat, mystified, she went on to slicing up some fruit and herbs for a morning fruit salad, lemon, honey, and the tiniest pinch of salt.

 

She finished the salad just as the muffins dinged. She took the muffins out of the oven and started plating her food. She took four plates and assembled three eggs benedict on each plate. With the muffin, Canadian bacon, and eggs assembled, she drizzled her hollandaise on top, styled it with a generous smudge of strawberry jam and parsley (also a nice side flavor to the dish).

 

The plates looked beautiful and she was satisfied. She assembled more eggs benedict on a serving plate, in case anyone needed second and third helpings, which was almost always the case, particularly with Jughead, who had an unusually big appetite.

 

She was setting the plate down in front of Jughead just as the back door swung open, with Kevin and Farmer John walking through.

 

“Just in time, gentlemen,” she said, grinning.

 

“Holy… this is crazy amazing,” Jughead said. “This is at least $20 a plate in the city.”

 

“Why do you think we come here so early, silly,” Kevin said, taking his seat and loosening the table napkin. “Thank you, honey, this looks utterly divine.” he said to Betty.

 

Farmer John settled in and cast her a smile. “Thank you, sweetheart, as always.”

 

Betty shrugged, reddening and looking back at them bashfully as she took her seat. “Aw, you’re welcome, guys. Jughead helped a lot this time.”

 

Jughead shot her a withering look. “Barely. Just enough to keep me out of trouble.”

 

They started eating and the farmhands gave her the usual compliments, but as was common with Jughead, he would _show_ her how much he enjoyed his food, with his eyes, and the droop of his shoulders, and how he seemed to savor every bite. He’d take second and third helpings, and Kevin was long done before he was, just watching Jughead pack it in.

 

“How do you stay so fit?” Kevin asked, mystified by how much food Jughead was shoving in his face.

 

Frankly, Betty wanted to know, as well.

 

Jughead grinned through a mouth full of fruit. “Honestly, I’m not this sedate in the city. The last few days have been the laziest I’ve ever been. I do work out. I’m not a special snowflake that can eat everything and not gain weight.”

 

Kevin leaned over, clearly intrigued. “So what is it that you do, exactly?”

 

Betty had to keep from rolling her eyes. Farmer John was already quietly shaking his head.

 

Jughead, thankfully, did not seem to think anything was amiss. “I go to a boxing gym.”

 

Betty’s knife slipped on her plate and she had to steel herself from visions of Jughead shirtless and punching a bag, dripping with sweat. She met eyes with Kevin, and she knew Kevin was already _there_.

 

“You box?” Kevin asked, mildly.

 

Jughead shrugged. “Barely. I follow their training workouts, mostly. Back in the day, when I was in college, I took jobs here and there and one of them was at this gym, where--um, a friend of my dad’s from his, erm, motorcycle club trained to fight professionally. He got me the job there, first in maintenance, and then I guess they saw how tall I was, so they started paying me to spar with their fighters for training.”

 

“So do you still spar for money?” Kevin asked.

 

“I still spar, but not for money anymore. These days I just do it for the free gym membership. I haven’t had to pay for a gym in years,” Jughead replied with a smirk. “It’s the street hustler in me, I guess. I’m not going to pay hundreds of dollars to go to some obnoxious, fancy fitness club.”

 

It was no wonder, she realized, he had such great arms and shoulders.

 

Kevin sighed and leaned his chin in his fists. “So you _actually_ get sweaty with a half-naked guy whilst pounding on one another?”

 

 _“Kevin!”_ Betty cried, banging her hand on the table. She _knew_ this would happen. It didn’t take much around here to get everyone’s mind in the gutter.

 

Kevin shook his head, a wistful, faraway look on his face. “You know what other sport is like that? Mixed martial arts. Those grappling moves and _full mounts_. I swear, it is the gayest straight sport ever!”

 

“Lawd,” Farmer John gasped disapprovingly.

 

Jughead smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. “Depositing something in your spank bank, Kevin?”

 

“Jughead Jones!” Betty cried, her hands flying to her reddening cheeks. “And you, Kevin Keller, are the worst!”

 

“Oh, don’t get your uptight little panties in a twist,” Kevin huffed. “It isn’t costing Jughead a thing giving me details! You’re bi, aren’t you, Jughead? It’s why you’re not like the other straight folk.”

 

Betty scowled, for real. “I am _not_ uptight!”

 

Jughead _did not_ stop smirking.  “I’m afraid I’m closer to boringly straight than anything else, Kevin, but I’m waiting for Betty to give details on how _not_ uptight she is.”

 

A pang of anxiety shot through Betty, realizing in no small way that she had had a grand total _two_ other sexual encounters in her widowed years. Two. The first was with an immensely attractive Italian who spoke no English. The second was with a quirky and brilliant videogame engineer from one of her in-laws swanky penthouse parties. Waking up in the beds of both lovers and sneaking out of their homes, she had been wracked with so much guilt and shame both times that she always vowed never to do such a thing again.

 

Now, each time she felt some sexual urge to jump into the sack with some guy she just met, she found herself remembering snippets from her mother’s judgemental words, her supposed undying love for her dead husband, and just her own truth, in general. She had always known herself to be a long-term relationships kind of woman, so any kind of casual encounter felt like she had lost her head. Like she had done something that her body had ordered her to do, regardless of what her heart felt. It was torture, and she didn’t want to be subjected to that again. It just seemed like casual sex was not worth the mental pain and suffering she would inevitably subject herself to.

 

She recognized that so long as all parties were responsible, there was nothing wrong with one-night affairs, but the misogyny of her parents were more internalized in her than she’d like, and it was still a constant battle to get out of that mentality.

 

“Farmer John,” she began, flustered. “Is there anything going on with the goats? How are the mamas, doing?”

 

She figured goats were nice and utterly non-sexual.

 

“Real smooth, Betty,” Kevin said, aside.

 

Farmer John shot Kevin a scolding look. “We have foxes, and while they couldn’t handle the bigger goats, I’m afraid they will hurt the babies when they come.”

 

_Great._

 

Of all the issues they could have, it had to be animal control.

 

Kevin clapped his hands excitedly.

 

Betty cast him a withering look. “Now don’t get too excited.”

 

“What’s so exciting about foxes?” Jughead asked.

 

Farmer John sighed. “Nothing. Kevin’s excited about the one we always call for these things to get rid of them.”

 

“I may just call someone else this year, you know,” Betty drawled.

 

Kevin rolled his eyes. “Please. No one discounts for you like Reggie does. And if you go out on a date with him, he’ll do it for free!”

 

She frowned. “My going rate’s a little higher than that, Kev. Go ask my pimp.”

 

Jughead stifled a laugh, but he popped a strawberry in his mouth and his demeanor shifted, arching an eyebrow. “This Reggie guy sounds like a creep.”

 

“Thank you, dear,” Farmer John said. “I’ve always said so.”

 

“But Reggie is so goddamn hot,” Kevin gushed, his voice lowering seductively. “And you know that he just plays that whole ‘I’m God’s gift to women’ schtick for laughs. He knows you secretly think it’s funny.”

 

Betty had to chuckle at that. “So he’s _funny,_ sure, but it is possible for me to find someone of the opposite sex funny and not need to smash him brainless.”

 

Jughead choked on his coffee.

 

“ _There’s_ the _not_ uptight Betty I know and love!” Kevin declared.

 

She shook her head and sighed. “Farmer John, please make an appointment for Reggie to come here. Let me know so I can brace myself.”

 

“Will do, Betty.”

 

“Wait a minute,” Kevin said, holding his hands up. “I just realized something. Jughead is awake!”

 

“Ten points for Hufflepuff,” Jughead said.

 

“Hufflepuff!” Kevin cried, incredulous.

 

“There is nothing wrong with Hufflepuff,” Betty said appeasingly. “ _I’m_ probably a Hufflepuff.”

 

“You’re probably part Ravenclaw,” Jughead pointed out. “And you know what the sorting hat says: You get to choose.”

 

She was way too pleased that he knew Harry Potter.  “Jughead is awake to observe us while we do our farm work.”

 

Jughead shrugged. “Thought I might help out a little, too. Work off the ten pounds I feel like I’ve already gained.”

 

“Fabulous!” Farmer John said. “I call dibs. He needs to help me carry the feed, stack some hay, and hold the goats and llamas while I brush them.”

 

“You brush your goats and llamas?”

 

“Every day.”

 

Kevin put his hands to his hips. “Hey, I’m digging trenches today. That’s harder work than your stupid goat brushing.”

 

Jughead looked to Betty and she realized he was waiting for her to assign him.

 

“I don’t want you to work too hard.”

 

“I can handle it,” Jughead said. “I can help Farmer John with the feed and probably put a dent in the hay stacking. Then I can help Kev with the trenches.”

 

Betty tried her very best to stop imagining Jughead Jones exerting himself to perspiration. Again. “Fine. Sounds like a plan, but I’ll check up on you. I don’t want my guest to pass out from heat and exhaustion. It’s going to be eighty-five degrees out.”

 

“That won’t happen,” Jughead assured her. “Sun’s out, guns out.” He flexed his arm goofily, fist sticking out in a comical pose.

 

She muffled a laugh, chastising herself for finding that funnier than it should’ve been.

 

Kevin eyed her suspiciously but said nothing and all she could do was look away shyly.

 

The men helped clear out the table and Betty manned the sink, washing and putting plates, pots, and cutlery away in the dishwasher. Kevin kindly set aside the leftovers in proper containers while Farmer John dragged Jughead out to start with the feed.

 

“Don’t work too hard, Jughead!” Betty cried after him.

 

He gave her a wave goodbye as he followed Farmer John out.

 

Betty tried to ignore Kevin who was looking at her pointedly.

 

“Spit it out, Kevin,” she said, scrubbing a pot with a sponge with unnecessary vigor.

 

“So, you like him,” Kevin said. It wasn’t a question.

 

Betty cast him a glare over her shoulder. She didn’t know what annoyed her more, the fact that he was going out of his way to state the obvious or the fact that she couldn’t hide her feelings from him at all.

 

“It’s just a crush. Get a grip,” she muttered. “And can you blame me?”

 

Kevin sighed. “Truth. That intellectual bad boy vibe he has going for him is just right up your alley. _And_ he knows the Hogwarts Houses. He’s a Ravenclaw, for sure, but that biker vibe he has going is _so_ Slytherin. So, are you gonna shag him, as they say in merry old England?”

 

She almost dropped a plate. “Jesus, Kevin!”

 

“What?”

 

“He’s a guest!”

 

“So?”

 

“I have the reputation of the B&B to think about! I don’t want people thinking that its hostess gives full service!”

 

Kevin threw back his head and laughed. “I didn’t even think of that! Oh, boy! House of ill repute. Won’t that be exquisite?”

 

“No, it’s obscene!”

 

“Oh, please. It’s 2017. Who talks about these things, still?”

 

“This is Riverdale. People will grab on to a story like that because nobody has anything to do around here. It’s bad enough that some people already think of me as a lonely widow. It’s humiliating when complete strangers either proposition me or try to pair me off.” She sighed and started rinsing off the pots. “And not even that, really… He’s going to come and go, Kev. That is _not_ the kind of thing I’m looking for.”

 

Kevin sighed, as well. He came over and gave Betty a hug. “I just want you to be happy, hon.”

 

“I know. And I _am_ happy. All of this makes me happy.” She turned and smiled at him, patting his sleeve with a soapy hand.

 

“Alright. I’ll shut up about it, but he _is_ very nice to look at,” Kevin said, grinning

 

“That he is.”  She kissed his cheek. “Now go dig those trenches.”

 

“Slave driver.”  Kevin kissed her cheek back and let her go, making for the door.

 

Betty filled up the dishwasher and set it to wash, then she sat on the bench, leaning her elbows back on the kitchen table. Across from her, on the island, were Jughead’s pack of cigarettes. She sighed as she looked at it, remembering the way he held a sliver between his fingers in those pictures she saw on the internet.

 

Intellectual bad boy, indeed.  

 

Jughead wasn’t just nice to look at. He was nice to talk to, too. And if she tried her best to stop thinking about him without his shirt on, then maybe she could get out of this in one piece.

 

*****

 

Jughead had his shirt off. The trenches were harder work than any of them thought and the weather did not make it easier.

 

Kevin had his shirt off, too, but she barely noticed that.

 

Jughead’s body wasn’t obnoxiously sculpted, because he was naturally lanky. Bulk might  not have fit him, but he had definition, nicely cut in his slim frame. Just enough to make him stupidly nice to look at, like the way those farm boys looked hauling around bales of hay, lean and lined.

 

His tattoos were in full display and the extent of the sleeve tattoo on his right arm became evident. It was a mixture of several different tattoos, all seemingly connected together by one big piece of art. It went up to his shoulder and snaked just a bit towards his chest in the form of a Chinese lung dragon. He had another tattoo on his left breast, and it was of a raven resting on a branch against the light of the moon. But the one that most caught her eye was the latin tattoo inscribed beneath his navel: _Audax sed Fidelis._ Bold but faithful.

 

 _Lord help me,_ she thought in mild panic. She seriously considered turning around and running away, but he had already seen her walking, and it would be too weird if she did a 180.

 

So gritting her teeth, she powered through and plastered a pleasant smile on her face.

 

He waved, sticking his shovel into the ground and leaning on its handle. He was breathing heavily, and he was sweating.

 

Her grip on her basket tightened painfully as she concentrated on what she came out here to do.

 

“I brought refreshments,” she said, sitting on a nearby stack of baled hay and setting her basket down.

 

“You’re an angel,” Jughead said, climbing out of his trench and collapsing at her feet beside her. He leaned back against the hay, knees up, and craned his neck to look up at her.

 

She couldn’t help but stare down at his beautiful blue eyes and smile at him. “Fresh, cold raspberry iced tea. I’ll spike it if you like. I brought tequila.”

 

He chuckled. “Virgin is fine.”

 

She _could not_ , for the life of her, prevent a blush from rising in her cheeks at that. She just hoped he would attribute it to the heat of the sun. She pulled out a carafe and poured him a glass full of tea, fresh raspberries and cubes of ice floating to the top. She plucked a leaf of mint from her bunch and garnished the tea with it.

 

“No mason jars?” he asked, a twinkle in his eyes.

 

She rolled her eyes. “I thought I’d spare this farm from one or two cliches.”

 

“Please tell me there’s alcohol in there!” Kevin cried from another trench.

 

“Kevin,” Betty cooed. “At ten thirty in the morning?” She threw Jughead a wink and he chuckled softly, shaking his head.

 

Kevin frowned. “It’s five o’clock in the afternoon _somewhere.”_

 

“I think that’s the first lesson you ever taught me,” she muttered, pulling out her bottle of tequila and waving it at Kevin.  

 

Kevin sighed with relief. “Were I straight, I would throw you over my shoulder and run away with you. Thank you!” He lumbered out of the trench and sat by her on the hay.

 

She poured him her iced tea and mixed a capful of tequila in his mug. He waved his hand in a circling motion and she sighed, pouring in a bit more.

 

“Honey, please,” Kevin said, exasperated. “We’re almost done, so it’s practically time to celebrate.”

 

“Jeez, alright.” She poured in a significant amount more.

 

Kevin took a hefty gulp of his drink and let out a whoop. “Now that’s what I call a refreshment! Where’s Farmer John at? He should be drinking with us.”

 

“I was going to him next.”

 

Kevin shook his head. “Uh-uh. Sit, my queen. I’ll go get him.” He hurried off, leaving Betty to wonder if her friend hadn’t left her with Jughead, in his state of hotness, on purpose.

 

“Did you want to smoke?” she asked Jughead, who suddenly appeared to avert his eyes from her, as if he had been caught staring.

 

“Left my pack in the house,” he muttered, drinking from his glass.

 

“Well, let’s see what else I have in my basket of wonders,” she said, pulling out the pack of cigarettes he left on her kitchen counter.

 

He looked so relieved, then he looked at her with pure, unbridled adoration. “You are amazing, you know that?” He took the pack from her and shook out a sliver. He took it with his lips and began patting his jeans for what was probably his lighter. “You wouldn’t hap--”

 

She flipped his lighter open and a flame rose from its flint.

 

He gave her the most unholy look as he took her hands in his to steady her and light his cig.

 

All she could do not to lose it was concentrate on slowing the hammering of her heart.

 

Smoke puffed from his lips, and with his cigarette properly lit, she snapped his lighter shut and extended it to him. He grinned but shook his head. “After the digging. I don’t want to ruin it.” He gave her the pack as well.

 

He began to get up and she put a hand on his bare shoulder to keep him from leaving.

 

“You don’t have to move on my account,” she said gently, willing her hand to move from the warmth of his skin.

 

The muscles on his shoulder tensed for a second. She removed her hand and he settled back down on his seat.

 

“I don’t want to blow smoke in your face,” he said, though mostly to explain. “If I’m getting cancer, I don’t want to drag anyone down with me.”

 

She shrugged. “I don’t mind the smoke. I’m a farmer, remember? Salt of the earth and all that.”

 

He smirked. “Could’ve fooled me.”

 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” She asked, honestly curious.

 

He nodded in the direction of the house and the soap factory. “I have a great respect for farmers and what they do, but you can’t tell me that a farmer’s daughter designed the interior of that house and thought of making signature soap and cheese while tending to the farm animals.”

 

She drummed her fingers against her knee. “My parents were not farmers.”

 

Jughead nodded. “Nothing wrong if they were, but yeah, I figured.”

 

She tilted a tight-lipped smile. “I grew up in New York City. My mother was a TV anchor and my father designed and engineered cars for General Motors, working his way to the top. When I got into Syracuse on an Interior Design scholarship, they were pretty sure I was on my way to becoming the toast of New York high society. But I met Trev and they didn’t approve of him. At all.”

 

“Why not?”

 

She chuckled and shook her head. “The reason they gave everyone was that he was a distraction and that his college course, Agriculture and Farming, wasn’t exactly going to land him any high-powered jobs in New York. _That_ was bad enough.” She took a deep breath and went on. “But I think they were particularly difficult because Trev was black. They never outrightly brought that up, because God knows--there’s nothing worse than being racist except being called one, right? They tried to keep their prejudices in the down low, even with me, but then Trev died and they were so indifferent to his death. They acted as if I’d _finally_ gotten rid of my baggage and I could move on with my life. If they only knew how my life stopped that day Trev died, then maybe they’d understand why I was so angry with them and why I cut them out of my life.”

 

Jughead’s gaze softened with compassion. “I’m sorry, Betts.”

 

She shrugged. “I don’t speak to them anymore. My sister and brother still do, and my parents have no objections to their lifestyles. Polly married the heir to the Blossom maple syrup fortune and Chic’s rising in the ranks of the FBI.”

 

Jughead blinked in surprise. “Seriously?”

 

She nodded, supposing that he was surprised about the Blossom connection and the FBI one as well. “Seriously.”

 

But then he said, “ _You’re_ their definition of black sheep? That’s absolutely messed up. I look at you and you’re the definition of successful.”

 

She blinked then chuckled, realizing that he was reacting to the family dynamic, not the connections. “I’ve long since figured out it’s my parents who are crazy and that there’s nothing wrong with me.”

 

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with you,” he said, pressing a hand on her knee.

 

She smiled down at him gratefully. “And so everyone has told me. I am halfway to believing it.”

 

“Let me tell you about the biggest screw up that ever lived.”

 

“Are you going to tell me you were a screw up? Because I won’t believe you.”

 

He chuckled, sticking his cigarette between his lips and leaning his head back against the hay. He looked so gorgeous doing this that she had to check herself from sighing at the luscious strands of black hair that were tumbling becomingly over his face and forehead.

 

“I won’t bore you with the details,” he said through the cigarette.

 

She scoffed. “Please. You are the most exciting thing in these parts the last few months if not the entire year.”

 

He took the cigarette from his mouth and blew out some smoke. “I’m going to lower those expectations right this minute.”

 

“I doubt you’ll succeed.”

 

He smirked, meeting her skeptical gaze with his amused one. “I was in a gang the moment I turned 13. My dad was the leader of it and did all sorts of shady shit. My mom took me and my sister with her to get away from his influence when I was 15, and stupid me, I resented the shit out of her. I mean, even like that, dad was my hero, so I told her dad needed my help and that I needed to get back to _him._ She wasn’t sympathetic to my cause—told me that if I did that, I could forget any thought of going back to her. I called her bluff and went back to dad and it was only then I realized mom left his sorry ass because he was a drunk and was going to jail. So there I was,16 and homeless because my mom refused to take me back, living where I can find shelter. I was a screw up.”

 

“You were 16. Young and confused,” she said gently. She was mildly horrified that his mother didn’t hunt him down later on and take him back, but she didn’t want to judge his mom. “But look at you now--a successful published writer! I take it you dodged the claws of the gang somehow.”

 

He shrugged. “The gang wanted to take me in, which would’ve been the end of me, I think. My best friend Archie convinced me to stay out of the gang and got his dad to take me into their home. That worked for a few months until social services got wind of it. They transferred me to a foster family, which happened to be the Lodges, of Hiram Lodge fame. They had a daughter, Veronica, who is still my best friend to this day--she and Archie met, fell in love, and now my two best friends are married. Somehow, in all of that, I landed a scholarship in NYU’s writing program, and here I am.”

 

She tilted her head at him. “Not a screw up at all. I’m sorry you were homeless, though.” She didn’t know why she had latched on to that. Maybe because she always believed people should have some sort of safe haven.

 

“Yeah, me too, but it took that to make me realize who my true friends were, and it wasn’t the gang. This dragon? It used to be a snake. I was still running with the Southside Serpents a bit when I got it. I had to pay a lot to get another artist to turn the snake into this.”

 

“It’s beautiful.”

 

He cocked a smile. “Yeah, it is. Do _you_ have any tattoos?”

 

She grinned, but she did blush. “Maybe.”

 

He wagged his eyebrows up and down. “Is it on your lower back?”

 

She threw back her head and laughed. “No! Definitely not there. It’s in latin,” she confessed, blushing.

 

“Oh, yeah? I like a good latin inscription myself.” And of course, the way he said it heavily implicated that this was something they had in common, like the proof was in both their skins.

 

She looked over her shoulder, hoping to God Kevin wouldn’t see what she was about to do. When the coast seemed to be clear, she lifted her blouse up to show him her midsection. The tattoo was draw right along her ribs, just right underneath her left breast. He could see some of her bra now, but she didn’t care. The inscription said _Uno die tempus,_ set against a backdrop of a web of tree branches in the spring, like looking up from a forest floor and seeing the first evidence of life after winter.

 

“One day at a time,” he reads quietly. “Did you get that after your husband died?”

 

She nodded, smiling sadly. “I needed to remind myself. Of pushing forward.”

 

“How did he die, if you don’t mind me asking?”

 

“I don’t mind,” she replied, smoothing her blouse down. “He got thrown off a horse. He broke his neck and died on impact.”

 

“Jesus,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Accidents happen on farms. Kevin didn’t leave my side for weeks after. I think he thought I was a suicide risk or something. I don’t think I felt anything that time. I was just in total shock, but sometimes I wonder if he wasn’t wrong. He didn’t even leave when my sister and brother were here to keep me company. It was almost like I only knew I was getting better when Kevin started leaving my sorry ass alone.”

 

“He’s a good friend,” Jughead said.

 

She nodded. “He is. Don’t tell him this, but if he threatens to leave me, I will triple his salary.”

 

He laughed, pretending to zip up his lips, lock it, and throw away the key.

 

She grins.

 

They heard voices behind them, and as she looked over her shoulder, she saw Farmer John and Kevin. She smiled and waved at them.

 

“How are you doing now?” Jughead suddenly asked. “Has it gotten easier?”

 

She thought about it, knowing in her heart that it _has_ gotten much better, but she often felt like she didn’t want to admit it. It was that guilt she had of forgetting things; things she thought she would always remember about Trev. Even now the denial was resting at the tip of her tongue, ready to be said, but as she looked into Jughead’s earnest eyes, like he _really_ wanted to know, as if her answer mattered, a tiny smile lifted the corner of her lips. “Yes. It’s--it’s gotten a lot easier, Jughead.”

 

She turned again at the sound of Kevin calling her, unable to keep her gaze locked in Jughead’s intense one. It felt too much right now, with the beating of her heart pounding in her ears.

 

********

 

There was a lot to be said about farm work. Jughead has had workouts in training gyms that have sent seasoned fighters throwing up in buckets, but working the farm all week had his muscles aching in places he never knew could possibly hurt.

 

Farm work was harder than any workout he’d had. Kevin’s work was mostly brute force--digging, hammering, and lifting--, and Farmer John’s work was an exertion on restraint--holding goats firmly, but carefully--but he hadn’t expected that the things Betty did would cause him to bleed, scratch, and bruise.

 

Harvesting crop, though in a relatively smaller plot of land, was a lot of bending, crouching, and pulling. His calves ached, his hands got blistered, and he cut his fingers on the garden knife she had given him to use. Add that to the cow that grazed him with a kick on the thigh when he tried to milk it and chasing runaway chickens to stick them back in the coop, and he felt quite banged up.

 

He still wanted to keep helping out in the farm, and writing was still a priority, but he decided he’d take a couple of days off writing to read some books from Betty’s pile of recommendations.

 

He took his favorite spot on the porch, a cup of coffee nearby and a cigarette between his lips, and read. He was constantly aware of Betty flitting in the background, whether she fell within his line of sight or she was close enough that he smelled her perfume, he knew when she was there and he liked that closeness.

 

He had decided a couple of days ago that it was stupid to fight the crush he had on her. Resistance was basically futile and he felt absurd, being near thirty and _still_ falling into the same trap of turning away from developing relationships when there was no discernible reason to run.

 

So fuck it, if she knew he liked her, then so be it. It was true and if she liked the idea, perhaps they could take it from there. Life was too short to put roadblocks where there didn’t need to be one.

 

He was halfway deep into the YA book _The Lie Tree_ when she emerged from the house in a pretty white dress with floral trim and brown booties.

 

He couldn’t help but look up from his book. She looked so fresh and beautiful that he really couldn’t help but stare and say, “You look nice. Going somewhere?”

 

She smiled, her cheeks glowing pink. “Just going into town for some shopping. Things like honey, office supplies, crafting materials, and all sorts of things that I can’t actually make.”

 

He wasn’t a huge fan on shopping, but the thought of spending all day with her, watching her shop, was so oddly appealing that he was sorely tempted to invite himself.

 

So when she suddenly asked, “Would you like to--?”

 

“Happy to go with you,” he said, grabbing his cigarettes and pocketing them swiftly. He didn’t bother to put the book back inside the house. He just figured he’d bring the book with him.

 

She looked positively amused. “Feeling a bit of cabin fever, are we?”

 

He supposed he could’ve played _a little_ hard to get, but sure, he’ll lead with the cabin fever thing. “Maybe. This is research, mainly. I want to see how a farmer shops.”

 

She looked at him askance and he smirked. “I’m just messing with you. I like your company.”

 

Her arched eyebrow transitioned to a look of surprise. When all he did was stand there, waiting and not taking it back, she still seemed a little unsure, though she smiled back.

 

“I like your company too, Jughead,” she said. “Come on, then.”

 

As he walked with her to her truck, he wondered belatedly if his Ramones t-shirt and leather bracelet didn’t look too grungy next to her pretty white dress, then again, _many_ people would look grungy next to her.

 

They got into her truck and as Betty pulled out of her property, she told him that the drive would be about 40 minutes, two towns over.

 

Jughead offered to drive, which she graciously thanked him for, but she insisted that he shouldn’t be driving her around.

 

He leaned his elbow on the window, watching the scenery shift between farmland, grazing animals, and trees. The cool wind hit his face and he relished the peace and quiet that seemed to shelter them from all sides.

 

“If I didn’t have my bike, I’d be wondering if you’d be willing to drive me around forever,” he said, shifting his gaze to her.

 

She cast him an amused smile. “How long _are_ you planning to stay at Riverdale Farms?”

 

He shrugged. “For as long as it’ll take to write what I can write from it.”

 

She arched an eyebrow. “Weeks?”

 

“Months?” he replied. “Who knows?”

 

She looked mildly astonished. “Is this what you do? Find places to write to finish your book? How does that work out for your place of residence?”

 

“Easily, it turns out,” he said, shifting his gaze back to the rolling road ahead. “I don’t own, I rent. I let my lease run out on my place and then headed up here. My accommodations here costs just about the same as my rental apartment in the city.”

 

She glanced at him, perhaps figuring out if he was kidding. He wasn’t.

 

“What if you didn’t like this place? Like, what if I was a horrible host with rude farmhands?”

 

He chuckled at that impossible thought. “I don’t know. I would’ve left it and crashed at my best friend's’ place while I look for somewhere else to stay, I guess. It’s not that hard. When you’ve been homeless like I have, none of this is scary.”

 

She took a deep breath and gave him a sidelong smile. “What other places have you lived in to write?”

 

He shrugged. “A week here or there. Paris, Amsterdam, the Caribbean, Japan, a few other states in the US, but honestly, I never gave up the lease on my apartment in New York until now. This is a first for me.”

 

She said nothing for a while and he could almost hear the gears turning in her head. “You running away from something this time?”

 

He smirked, impressed by her theory. “Why would you guess that?”

 

“Nobody lives in this podunk town unless they want to get away,” she replied with a chuckle. “When the most exciting thing in the town is me and the B&B, you know you’ve hit Snoozeville.”

 

“I don’t know. I find you incredibly interesting, Betty.”

 

“Don’t change the subject. Am I right?”

 

He said nothing for a moment, grinning mostly to himself. “How much of me did you Google?”

 

She put a hand up as if to prove she had nothing to hide. “I told you, I don’t dig too deep.”

 

“At least they’ve stopped talking about me online,” he drawled.

 

“I am so curious right now, I may just pull over on the side of the road until you tell me.”

 

He laughed. “Just keep driving. I’ll tell you. About four months ago, I broke up with my girlfriend of seven months. The relationship was over before I pulled the plug--should’ve done it sooner, then maybe we both could’ve gotten out of it unscathed.”

 

“Oh,” she said, quietly. “Did you love her?”

 

It took all his willpower not to laugh. “Eh. It was fun and she was smart, but it wasn’t love. Not even at the beginning. She was an actor. A famous one.”

 

That caused her eyebrow to arch. _“Who?”_

 

“Trula Twyst.”

 

She gasped. “Trula Twyst was your girlfriend? I _love_ her! She’s an awesome actor. Big social justice defender and all that. She’s got a great fuck-it attitude.”

 

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

 

She made a face. “Sorry for rambling. Got carried away. And I’m sorry that didn’t work out for you.”

 

“No love lost.”

 

“It ended four months ago, you said?”

 

He nodded. “I broke up with her. I think we both wanted it, but it’s always a bit more challenging for the rich and famous to break up with people, so they kind of put it off. I just went ahead and did it for us. She asked if she could tell the public that _she_ broke up with _me._ I don’t care about that shit so I said, sure. What the hell, right? But her people ran away with that shit and pretty soon, everyone believed she dumped me because I was a lying, cheating asshole.”

 

“What!” Betty cried.

 

He nodded. “Yeah.”

 

She bit her bottom lip tentatively. “But you _weren’t,_ right?”

 

He cast her a tired grin. “I may be an asshole sometimes, but I’m never a lying cheating one.” He held out his hand to count off with his fingers. “One, it’s way too much work; two, it’s too fucking expensive, and three, I’m just not like that. I don’t treat women like shit, and cheating is the shittiest of shitty things. But somehow she had everyone convinced and it was brutal for weeks. Complete strangers would yell at me for hurting Trula. I got threatening mail. I got bullied online. It got so bad that there were times I missed getting beat up by football players in high school. At least those were one and done. This was a constant barrage. New York City refused to let me write in peace.”

 

“Oh, Jug. I’m sorry _she_ treated you like shit. I’m sorry people are complete fuckwads.”

 

He laughed. “Fuckwads?”

 

“Douchenozzles? Jizzburgers? I could go on.”

 

He had to appreciate her for her outrage on his behalf. “I don’t even know what has them so convinced. Do I even look like some Hollywood playboy? I didn’t even know she was an actor when we were introduced. I just thought she was cute and funny.”

 

She didn’t reply immediately, but she did put her hand on his arm. “Jughead, people are jerks, sometimes. You’re here now so you don’t have to think about them. They’re just jealous that you’re actually successful _and_ attractive enough to fit their expectation of Hollywood playboy.”

 

He arched an eyebrow. “You think I’m attractive?”

 

He could see her cheeks turning pink, but she just shrugged. “Well, yes. Don’t you think so? You should. You have a very nice face, Jughead.”

 

He tried not to be too pleased at the casual compliment, and yet he wasn’t accustomed to handling it, either. He grew up surrounded by the likes of Archie and Veronica, two devastatingly attractive people. People tended to look past him to see _them,_ and that was totally fine by him.

 

“Sweet of you. Thanks,” he muttered, looking out of his window. He realized her hand was gone and he craved it. “It’s settling down, it seems. The online stuff, I mean. If there’s nothing on the first page of Google, then that’s a sign that people are moving on.”

 

“So does that mean you’ll be going back to the city soon?”

 

He shook his head. “Not likely. Before coming here, there were still too many people who recognized me for the wrong reasons. I think they’ll keep getting in my business until Trula starts seeing someone else. Don’t know when. Don’t care. I’m all settled here. Whatever happens, people will eventually get on the next news cycle and I’ll be completely forgotten by the glitterati as well as her fans, just in time for my readers to buy my newest book. Meanwhile, I’m out here escaping that nonsense.”  He gave her a grateful grin. “I’m doing a lot of writing here. I’m not switching gears when everything’s going well.”

 

She reached over the console and put a hand on his arm again, squeezing lightly. “I’m glad you like it here. And I’m glad you’re able to write.”

 

He stared at her hand. Felt the pressure of it, and he wondered ridiculously if he should draw his troubles with Trula out, but of course he wasn’t like that, and when she took her hand away, he realized that he was now reduced to scheming to get her attention. “You’ll probably grow sick of me. You’ll have to kick me out.”

 

She chuckled. “Like I said… you’re doing me a favor. I like having company in the house.”

 

At the moment, he was happy to be that company. He stole glances at her as she drove.

 

Her hair was down this time, and some of it was blowing in the wind. The skin of her arms glowed under the rays of the sun. Her skirt was kind of riding up her thigh and he was reminded of the day she showed him her tattoo, and some of her lacy bra showed beneath her shirt when she lifted it to show him.

 

He had never tried so hard to keep his dick from reacting.

 

Right now, with her looking very fine driving the truck, he was forcing himself to think about the most nonsexual thoughts he could conjure: Moldy pizza under Archie’s bed, picking up dog poop, Veronica having a temper tantrum at Manolo Blahnik’s, misuse of affecting vs. effecting.

 

She caught a pothole. She made a face and whispered her apologies, but he barely noticed because her skirt rode even higher, showing even more tantalizing patches of skin. He tore his eyes away to stare out of the window miserably. He doubted a cold shower would help him tonight.

 

Honestly, he probably wouldn’t be the first guy to jack off to Riverdale Farm’s alluring-as-fuck hostess.

 

When they arrived at the shopping strip, Jughead took in the quaint, small town shops and restaurants, noting the coffee shops and the pretty Italian trattorias.

 

His eyes trailed to Betty who had a grocery bag slung over her shoulder.  Would it be weird to take her out to dinner?

 

“There’s an ATM at the corner if you need cash,” she said.

 

“I’m fine. I’ve got a duffel bag full of money at the B&B.”

 

She threw him a mildly scolding look for teasing.

 

He laughed softly. “I haven’t spent a thing since getting here.”

 

She rolled her eyes and grinned. “Okay, so I’ve got places to go--do you want to walk with me or do you want to wander on your own? We could just meet back here after an hour.”

 

“I’ll go with you,” he said. “Research, remember?”

 

She slapped his arm with the back of her hand, lightly. He grinned broadly at that. She was _warming_ to him.

 

He followed behind her, noting the flower shop that they passed.

 

There was quite a crowd on the sidewalk and he realized it was because it was Saturday. He supposed it was harder to keep track of the days when he was busy like he had been.

 

She looked over her shoulder at him as she pushed through and he cocked a smile at her reassuringly. He saw an opening in front of her and swallowing his nerve, he put a hand on her back and guided her lightly. She let him. He was a head taller than a lot of people. He could see better where they could pass.

 

They finally got through the throng.

 

“Busy, today,” she breathed, heading straight for the honey shop nearby.

 

The shop owner greeted her warmly, coming out from behind the counter to attend to Betty. Jughead was introduced and Sylvia, the store owner, seemed to appraise him. For what, he didn’t know. She was nice, however, inviting both him and Betty to the back.

 

Betty’s batch wasn’t the same as the more commercial containers. The jars she gave Betty were bigger, and Betty was allowed to sample them before paying.

 

Sylvia gave Jughead two sample sticks, dripping honey on the edge of both from different batches. “This one is local. Try it and tell us if you like it better than this other one from three towns over.”

 

Jughead didn’t know there were different tastes of honey. He tried both and found a surprising difference.

 

“The local stuff’s pretty deep. More flowery. The other one’s sharper. Tangier.”

 

Sylvia seemed pleased, nodding. “The local bees live off a diet of wildflowers. The out-of-towners have a soft drink bottling factory nearby. Mountain Dew, I believe. I’m not knocking it. This stuff is good for mixed drinks. The other is better for baclavas and yoghurt desserts.”

 

Betty nodded, patting his arm softly in approval. “My guest has a discerning palette. I think I’ll bring him around more often.”

 

“You’re not going to get an argument from _me,”_ Sylvia said, winking at him.

 

His face felt embarrassingly hot and Betty giggled softly beside him.

 

“I’ll take both bottles, Sylvia,” she said.

 

“Excellent. I know you’re still shopping, so I’ll hold these for you at the front. Just pick ‘em up when you’re ready to go.”

 

“Thank you. Yeah, would rather not haul those around the whole time.”

 

Betty gave her thanks and they both made their way out of the shop to go to the next store.

 

“Well, you made an impression,” she told him, grinning. “You have a knack for flavor.”

 

“One of my tongue’s many talents.” He waggled his eyebrows.

 

She gasped and laughed. “Juggie! Someone’s been spending too much time with Kevin!”

 

Juggie. He liked that nickname. And her cheeks were pink. He absolutely liked that he could do that to her.

 

She led the way to another shop, and another. He watched her at each one, liking the way she interacted with the shop owners, marveled at the meticulous way she made her selections. He carried her bags. And he touched her. At every opportunity. He couldn’t help himself.

 

Little nudges here or there on her arm to get her attention. A light tap on her shoulder. Maybe an entire hand. He had touched her elbow once and he could have sworn she gave a jolt. It was perhaps why, for the first time in his life, he liked the crowds, because that meant he could sidle up closer to her. Close enough to get a whiff of her shampoo.

 

Many of the locals recognized her and some of the guys who knew her flirted and practically turned tricks to make her laugh. He didn’t blame them in the slightest.

 

He found himself buying a couple of packs of craft beer and a few more packs of cigarettes, but then she talked about the beer, explaining to him who made them locally and how. He watched her lips move, but he could barely make out the words because he couldn’t stop thinking about how soft her lips looked.

 

She didn’t notice immediately that her words were not registering, because he would nod and respond mildly. But when she asked a question, expecting an answer, and all he said was “Yeah,” she had cast him a withering look.

 

“I’ve lost you, haven’t I?”

 

He shook his head, unembarrassed and _still_ not looking away from her lips and the animated gleam in her eyes. “Not in the least.”

 

It was only then she seemed to realize that she had his  _full_ attention and she looked away shyly. “You’re silly,” she said weakly, walking ahead of him.

 

They went to a couple more stores and then they were heading back to the truck. They deposited their things on the truck bed, and Jughead hurriedly volunteered to pick up the honey.

 

“I’m sure Sylvia will remember you,” she said with a laugh.

 

Jughead took to the task immediately, picking up the jars of honey then taking a detour to the flower shop. He picked up a nice set of long stemmed summer blooms that he thought she’d like.  

 

When he got to the truck, he set aside the honey and hopped into the passenger seat.

 

“I thought of you when I saw these,” he said, giving them to her. He felt a little bit like a teenager, giving flowers to a girl he liked. “Thanks for bringing me here. Maybe I did have a touch of cabin fever. I enjoyed myself.”

 

She certainly looked startled, but then she smiled gratefully. “Juggie, you’re sweet. They’re beautiful and thoughtful. Thank you.”

 

She took them and she peeked between the blooms to look at him. He saw a flash of something that _definitely_ sent an unholy jolt through his body.  

 

When she leaned over the console, he had a split second impulse to sink his fingers into her hair and pull her in for a kiss, but he hesitated, and his nerve got washed away by the light kiss that landed on his cheek.

 

She smiled at him broadly. “I’ll put this in water the moment we get home,” she said, setting the flowers between them and starting the truck.

 

She began to drive, and he sat there letting the feel of her lips against his skin wash over him like water. He felt for a moment like he was drowning, breathless in the tide of her golden hair cascading down her shoulder, the graceful lift of her arms as she moved, the shifting of her skirt as the truck’s gears changed, and the scent of sweet lavender lingering in his senses.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm obviously a fan of tattoos.


	4. Like Fiery Cherry Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truck’s engine turned off and the driver’s side door opened. Reggie rounded the truck, grinning and putting his arms out. “B Coop! How are you? Damn, you lookin’ fine girl!” He came up the porch and engulfed Betty in a hug. 
> 
> Jughead scowled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Riverdale day, folks! Hump day was never more exciting! 
> 
> In the last chapter, we found out that Betty had a night with an Italian guy and a video game engineer. I don't mind telling you that's my brain on the Sprouse brothers. They were both born in Italy and D. Sprouse works in the video game industry.

 

 _Excerpt from_ **_Harvest to Home_ ** **,** **_Like Fiery Cherry Pie_ **

 

_“I’ve comforted many a broken heart with Cherry Pie ala mode. The contrast of warm crust and filling with cold vanilla ice cream is a sensory treat, perhaps sending a burst of endorphins when we need it most._

 

_Cherry pie is sweet and tart, with a bold red filling. It is the color and taste of flame and passion. When emotions are strong and we’re caught in its raging heat, you must fight fire with fire.  The last thing you want is a pale and weak cherry pie, so let’s make sure your pie lives up to your heart’s expectations…”_

 

_\--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast_

  


Jughead enjoyed having dinner with Betty.  Her dinners were often hearty, simple meals that were delicious, comforting, and satisfying. Her stews were his favorite, ladled over varying forms of carbs, like couscous, rice, or potatoes. She often had a vegetable dish on the side, often perfectly paired with her main course.

 

She always offered wine, which he always declined. She never got any for herself, either, but he wasn’t sure if it was because she didn’t feel like it or whether it was because he wasn’t having any.

 

Her desserts were amazing, from pies, to cakes, to pudding. He looked forward to dessert like a kid, because it was always a treat.

 

But what he liked most about dinner? It was the conversation. When it was just the two of them, their inner nerds took flight, and they went down the rabbit hole of movies new and old, or books and the characters they liked best. They talked about TV shows and their various flaws and foibles, as well as everything that was awesome about them. They debated plot points and cliffhangers, season endings and game changers. They laughed about stupid songs and gushed over the good ones.

 

Through it all, Jughead learned things about her that he found fascinating, like the fact that she took ballet lessons for several years, stopping only because her mother discovered that it could make her feet look hideous.

 

“I raged for weeks about it,” she had told him, sighing, while they were putting the dinner plates away. “Like, so what if my feet became ugly? They were covered most of the time, anyway, and I loved to dance. But she was my mom. She paid for those lessons and I wasn’t strong enough to stand up to her. My ballet career was done, my feet recovered, and that was the end of that.”

 

“God, you must’ve been a vision,” he said, wistfully, almost in a whisper. “Did you have to wear a tutu?”

 

She gave him a tight-lipped smile, a deep sadness lingering in her gaze. “I did. Those costumes were exquisite, and Jesus, we were all skinny, probably malnourished little things. The smaller your waist, the higher you flew. It probably wasn’t all that healthy, but it was so… well, it meant a lot to me. I gave up those carbs and fats because dancing was divine.”

 

“I wouldn’t give up my food for dancing,” he said, flatly.

 

She shrugged. “It was a different time. I wouldn’t do that anymore, but I don’t need to fly anymore. I’m pretty happy being grounded.”

 

He noted the wistfulness in her voice, realizing that she hadn’t just given up a hobby—she had given up something she felt passionate about. His heart went out to her. “Do you miss it?”

 

She nodded, thoughtfully. “All the time.”

 

He had wondered, then, if there was any dancing in these parts.

 

Jughead did not have nice snippets like that to share. His stories were grittier. More felonious. He had admitted to her that he once stole a car for his gang, that he almost got caught by the police, but when he got away, he felt a rush like nothing he’d felt before.

 

“I was never a thrill junkie,” he had said to her over dessert. “But _that_ was a thrill high. I knew it for what it was and I got scared of it--that I might like it too much. Addictive behavior ran in my blood, after all. It was the first and last time.”

 

She leaned over the table, regarding him with curiosity. “How many more situations were you in that you had to steer _yourself_ in the right direction?”

 

“I don’t know,” he said, blowing a breath through his lips. “Too many. I guess I’m just lucky that in spite of my dad being a raging alcoholic, he taught me right from wrong pretty well.”

 

Her eyes had trailed to the necklace hanging from his neck. “That necklace you always have on… what is it?”

 

He realized she had asked because he had clasped it in his hand. He held it out and at first glance, it looked slightly mangled and unidentifiable, but as he held it up in the light, her eyebrow quirked in recognition.

 

“It’s a bullet,” she breathed, taking it in her hand for a closer inspection.

 

She was close enough to him to feel the warmth radiating from her body, but he was wearing the necklace as she inspected it, so he really had no slack to move away.

 

“They fished that bullet out of my father,” he said, watching her face as she looked at the pendant. “He’d been in jail when it happened. Some riot from inside. Before he got shot, I didn’t even want to speak to him. After that, he was in a coma for a while and the doctor contacted me, telling me that when they thought they were going to lose him, he had asked for _me,_ his kid.”

 

She looked up at him with clear compassion. “Heck of a thing to hear. What did you say?”

 

He shrugged. “Nothing at first. There were too many years that he let me down, but out of obligation I went to see him. The doctors gave me the bullet, and while I was there and dad was just lying there, definitely sober, I just remembered the times he was _there_ , no matter how mired he was in the gang, or even when he was drunk. He tried to be there for me even as his demons dragged him away.”

 

“How are you and your dad now?”

 

He nodded affirmatively. “Good. He’s been out of jail for many years now. We keep in touch pretty regularly. He’s been sober. I see him on holidays. Sometimes we _go_ on holidays. This bullet kind of brought us back together, and he knew it. I gave it back to him when he got out of jail and that first Christmas since jail, he gave me the bullet back as a necklace.“ He smirked, slightly embarrassed at the contrast between her stories and his in juxtaposition. “I recognize that exchanging bullets between father and son is so very Biker Gang lore, but that’s my truth, and it was a step forward for me and dad. It can’t erase the past, but I’ll take what’s up ahead.”

 

She smiled at him then, pressing her hand to his arm. “I love that story, Jughead. Thank you for sharing it. It’s exactly the kind of movie that would have had me ugly sobbing in the corner all night.”

 

He laughed at that. “You think?”

 

She nodded. “Oh, definitely.”

 

It was about two and a half weeks since he arrived at this B&B and he felt more at home here than he ever did at Archie’s, or being fostered by the Lodges. While he had been grateful for Archie and Veronica’s love and friendship, there was still a kind of _otherness_ that came from the feeling of being shoved there by circumstance--because he had nowhere else to go. He always felt like a burden, and he kept apologizing to them, to their parents, to their dogs, even. It wasn’t their fault, but it was a fact that he wasn’t supposed to be there at all.

 

With the B&B, it was completely different. For one thing, he was paying for his accommodations, so at the very least, he had bought his spot there, but while Betty did make an effort to make his stay comfortable, his work at the farm seemed to have made him one of _them._ And he wanted to keep it that way, because Betty was fast becoming his friend. She was calling him _Juggie,_ and she was inviting him to watch TV with her in her living room, and she would touch his arm, or shoulder, or even his hand.

 

The farmhands told him their personal stories, like the time Farmer John first realized he was gay and his church going parents had sent him to some Jesus camp for the summer to rid him of it, or the time Kevin told him about coming out to his sheriff dad, about how terrified he was, only to realize that his dad was amazing, because Sheriff Keller had no problem with it at all.

 

He felt close to them, and he felt closer to Betty. She had told him constantly that this was his house too while he was there, and he realized he believed it when one evening, he had gone down to the kitchen and made himself a ham sandwich, as if he really owned the joint.

 

This place was the best thing to happen to him in years, and as he watched Betty dancing gracefully in her kitchen to some modern music as she cleaned, eyes closed and thinking he had gone to bed, he marveled at how this never would’ve happened to _him_ in the city, where he could walk into a kitchen and have a housemate lost in their own thoughts and dancing like no one was looking.

 

He leaned his shoulder against the kitchen entrance, watching her do little steps and twirls with a mop in her hand, her hips swaying, her neck arching like a swan, her body curling like flowing water in what he could only figure was technically _not_ ballet but was heavily influenced by it. It was breathtaking.

 

He shifted and made a sound, and she whirled in surprise. Her face went red, her mouth dropping open in speechless shock. “How long--”

 

“God, I can watch you do that all day,” he said unhurriedly, his voice low, his eyes flickering all over the lines of her lithe frame. It wasn’t desire, exactly, but he had wanted to hold her like that. Dancing just like that. He could see it, his palm fitting into the arch of her back, his hands circling the curves of her waist, his fingers around her nape. “Never appreciated ballet until now.”

 

It was the truth. She was opening his eyes to many things, and ballet was the least likely of them, but here he was, getting it.

 

She still looked embarrassed, but now she was smiling. “Maybe I’ll bring you to the ballet someday.”

 

He looked forward to that invite. She had no idea.

  
******  
  


He was writing on the porch again, but this time, Betty wasn’t busy. She was on the swing, legs up and reading his first book. She was more than halfway through.

 

He wasn’t fussed by it. At least that’s what he told himself. His published books were baked and they were what they were. Both books had been well received--they were best sellers after all, and even if he had gotten the couple of odd bad reviews, his years as an author had toughened his hide. He could take a bad review as well as a good one.

 

Betty’s opinion would matter. He just knew it would. But right now she was reading it and he couldn’t dwell on something that hasn’t happened yet. He wrote as he waited.

 

Kevin was out that day and Farmer John, as was his wont, stayed with the goats.

 

It was while he was wrestling with a climactic scene in his book that he heard the distant roar of an engine.

 

He looked up from his laptop and saw a cloud of dust rising from behind a bold red sportscar. It was pealing through Betty’s dirt road furiously, and as it came closer, he was afraid that it was going to barrel right into the house.

 

Betty stood from her swing, staring at this car. She looked calm, but she was notably surprised. “What the--”

 

The car did slow, but it slid to a halt in front, sending dust puffing around them.

 

Jughead waved the dust away from his face, and as it cleared, someone emerged from the passenger side.

 

Her hair was alarmingly red. She had the blood red lips of a vampire goddess and her curvy body was wrapped in an expensive-looking, clingy dress. Her heels were towering, and her bag looked pricier than the monthly  cost of owning an old rental apartment in New York city.

 

She stormed up the porch, and Betty barely got out the name “Cheryl” when the new arrival gave an anguished wail.

 

“The bitch _dumped_ me, Betty! She _dumped me in fucking Paris!”_

 

Betty’s mouth dropped open. When Cheryl--as he assumed was her name--started to cry, Betty sprung to action.

 

“Oh. Oh, honey, _don’t!”_ she threw her arms around the redhead's shoulders as she shot Jughead a look. She jerked her head in the direction of the front door.

 

Jughead immediately got up from his perch and opened the screen door for the ladies to pass through.

 

Betty lead Cheryl to the living room and sat both of them down. Cheryl sobbed passionately on Betty’s shoulder and Jughead asked with his eyes what he should do.

 

Betty motioned for him to sit, and while he did not want to do that, he was unequal to denying Betty whatever she wanted him to do. So he took a seat on one of the sofa chairs, and watched Betty soothe Cheryl in a comforting voice.

 

“She did it at the Louis Vuitton store at _Champ Elysee,_ Betty. My absolute favorite place in the world and she fucking ruined it for me!”

 

“That’s horrible, Cheryl!” she gasped. “What a witch. She couldn’t have waited to get out of the store?”

 

“That’s what I said!” she screeched, crumpling the front of Betty shirt as she sobbed into it.

 

It occurred to Jughead at that point that this woman looked powerfully familiar. She wasn’t some random crazy lady from the city, this was a _somebody,_ and he could only really comprehend the reality that Betty was a refuge to _all,_ downtrodden or privileged, rich or poor.

 

“Cheryl,” Betty said, rubbing her back with pure affection. “You’re better than this. You’re an Empress. You rule the goddamn world! If she ruined Louis Vuitton in _Champ Elysee_ for you, find another place in Paris to love!”

 

Jughead fought valiantly to stifle a smirk.

 

Betty’s words seemed to have worked because Cheryl nodded, accepting the tissue Betty gave her and dabbing her eyes as her sobs waned slightly. “You’re right. You’re so fucking right, Betty.”

 

She nodded. “I know I am. How about I get you some cherry pie ala mode?”

 

“You know I love your cherry pie ala mode,” Cheryl replied, sniffing.  

 

“Okay. Would you like some music while you wait?”

 

Cheryl nodded.

 

“Alexa,” Betty said out loud to her Echo device. “Play Lily Allen’s—“

 

“Don’t you fucking dare play Lily Allen!” Cheryl cried hysterically. “I can’t handle her anger right now! My heart’s too broken!”

 

“Alright!” Betty yelled over her high-pitched scream. “How about Katy Perry?”

 

Cheryl sniffed and nodded. “I’ll allow it.”

 

Betty didn’t even roll her eyes. She just asked Alexa to play Katy Perry and the upbeat music started to play.  

 

“I’ll be right back with your pie, okay?” Betty stood to go to the kitchen, and for a moment, Jughead felt panic at being left alone with Cheryl, but Betty made eye contact with him and gave a subtle wave for him to follow.  

 

Quietly, he stood and followed Betty to the kitchen. When they got there and he was sure they wouldn’t be heard, he came up behind Betty and whispered, “Is that Cheryl _Blossom?”_

 

“The one and only,” she whispered back, removing the cover from the pie resting on her kitchen island. “She’s my sister in law.”

 

“I got that,” Jughead said, too afraid to be heard to talk any louder. He leaned over so Betty can hear him better. “She’s…” _crazy._

 

“A bombshell.”

 

“Not the word I was thinking about but it’s actually _perfect.”_

 

Betty took a plate off her shelves and a jar of cherry preserves. “I wanted to talk to you about her a bit. I wasn’t expecting her until next month--she usually comes here three times a year, stays for a week, then leaves. But as you can see, her plans didn’t work out.”

 

“Yeah, sucks to be an American dumped in Paris.”

 

She threw him a look, though she was smiling. She smeared a dollop of cherry preserve on the plate then took a slice of the pie, putting it down carefully beside the smudge. “So she’s early, and I hope you don’t mind having someone else in the house so suddenly.”

 

He didn’t even know why she was asking him. “This is _your_ house, Betty. Your B&B. Of course I don’t mind. It’s not my place to mind.”

 

She smiled plaintively. “I know you don’t like strangers. I could’ve given you fair warning if I had known she was coming.”

 

“I’ll live. This isn’t the first time I had to put up with new people in an unexpected social setting.”

 

She patted his arm as she went to the refrigerator to pull out a tub of vanilla ice cream. She started to dig a ball of ice cream out but it was too hard.  “I do hate it when the ice cream--”

 

“Lemme--”

 

“Would you? Thank you, you’re a dear.”

 

He took the scoop from her hands and started to form the ice cream ball with it.  She went to her kitchen window to pluck a mint from one of her pots. By the time she came back, he had a hefty ball of ice cream.

 

“Right on the side, Juggie,” she said.

 

He plopped it carefully on the side of the pie, just as he’d seen Betty do it, and she smiled at him, pleased, while dropping the mint leaf on top.

 

He felt like a million bucks.

 

“She’s a lot to handle,” Betty said carefully. “She’s a dear but you have to break through five layers of ice.”

 

“I ran with a biker gang, Betts. I think I can handle Cheryl Blossom.”

 

She cocked a smile and nodded. She took a fork, the plate, and led the way back to Cheryl. He trailed after her and sat back down on the sofa chair while Betty served her cherry pie.

 

Cheryl immediately began to consume it, her eyes rolling as she told Betty how good it was. She shoveled a couple more bites into her mouth before setting it down on the coffee table and began to tell Betty about her ex, Sabrina Spellman.   

 

“This bitch,” Cheryl started. “Has been going on and on about this trip the last few months and I’m thinking I’m going to impress the shit out of her bringing her to all the best places in Paris. When we get to Louis Vuitton, I bought her this hot new bag called a Lockme Bucket, and it’s all adorable and _totally her--_ you know, just a trinket--”

 

“That’s a $3,000 trinket,” Betty pointed out.

 

Jughead didn’t even know how Betty knew that and could pull that off the top of her head.

 

“Not even,” Cheryl said, rolling her eyes. “$2,900 max. Anyway, after I buy her this bag, that’s when she springs on me that she’s seeing this _guy--”_

 

 _“Guy?”_ Betty gasped.

 

“Guy, Betty. She dumped me for penis. This _does not_ happen to Cheryl Blossom.”  

 

Betty shook her head sympathetically. “Did you know she was bi?”

 

“Well, of course I did, but pussy never leaves _this._ I mean, look at me, Betty! Look at _these!”_ she pressed her hands to her breasts and shook them.  “And this tongue? It’s legendary, Betty.”

 

Jughead found himself turning his eyes awkwardly to the pie on the table. He had a distinct feeling that Cheryl hadn’t noticed he was there. Or maybe she did and didn’t give a fuck.

 

“And I bought her the best fucking stuff money can buy!” Cheryl cried, slamming a fist on a pillow.

 

“Hon, you know that relationships have to be built on more than sex and money, right?” Betty said gently. “You can’t think that your boobs and credit card will carry you through.”

 

“It won’t, but it sure as fuck helps!”

 

Betty sighed, shooting a look at Jughead.

 

He shrugged. What was he going to add to that?  In fairness, Cheryl wasn’t completely wrong. He had grown up poor long enough to know that while money can’t buy everything, it sure helped lighten the burden of living and loving. “She has a point.”

 

Betty gave a sigh of resignation.

 

Cheryl finally looked at him, and the intensity of her stare did unnerve him a little bit. She looked him up and down, then turned back to Betty. “Who’s this tall glass of water?”

 

He arched an eyebrow uneasily in Betty’s direction.

 

“This is Jughead Jones,” Betty said. “He is a guest here.”

 

Cheryl glared at him, her pouting lips getting even poutier. “You’re Trula Twyst’s boyfriend.”

 

_Oh, God._

 

 _“Ex._ Ex-boyfriend,” Jughead told her pointedly.

 

“He’s a writer,” Betty interjected. “A published, bestselling author, which has absolutely nothing to do with Trula Twyst.”

 

He gave her a grateful look. He didn’t think he could stand it if the bullshit he ran away from followed him here in what he now considered a sanctuary.

 

“Did you really cheat on her?” Cheryl asked.

 

Jughead sighed. “I didn’t. I _so_ didn’t. That was a story fabricated by her publicist and talent manager to save her reputation.”

 

Cheryl gave him a sidelong glance and turned to Betty. “Do you believe him?”

 

Jughead rubbed his face with his hands.

 

“I absolutely believe him,” Betty said emphatically. “And you know I’m a great judge of character.”

 

He cast her a small smile of appreciation.

 

“Fine,” Cheryl said curtly. “I’ll have to, then. I assume I’ll have to live with him while I’m here. I hope you don’t mind me barging in here, Betty. I know that you normally like to prepare.”

 

Jughead could admit to himself that he felt a slight pang of anxiety, not because Cheryl scared him, but because now he had to _share_ Betty, which was kind of absurd. Betty was not his. Betty was his host. Then again, having her full attention had been pretty exhilarating.

 

Betty rubbed Cheryl’s shoulder. “It’s no problem, Cheryl. You just relax. You’ll get your usual room, of course, and do you have any bags?”

 

“In my trunk.”

 

“I’ll get it--”

 

“Let me,” Jughead said, needing something to do. “You stay here with Cheryl, Betts. I got it.”

 

She gave him a grateful smile.

 

Cheryl looked him up and down again before she nodded. “You’ll do, Jones.”

 

He held out his hand for Cheryl’s car keys and as soon as he got it, he made his way out to Cheryl’s car.  This was going to be a long week. Best he got in Cheryl’s good graces.

  
  
***  


Cheryl was a hurricane. She swooped in whenever she arrived, crushing souls as she went, while advertising how much better she was than everyone else. Even Betty, the one person she professed to love best, wasn’t spared from Cheryl’s gale of venom.

 

She tended to backtrack when she bared her fangs in Betty’s direction, which was probably Cheryl’s way of showing affection for her sister in law, but it happened often enough that Jughead was getting incensed by it on Betty’s behalf.

 

When Cheryl called her, “Betty Draper Season 5,”—in fairness carelessly, not maliciously—Jughead found himself glaring at the redheaded bombshell and saying, warningly. “Cheryl, take it back.”

 

It was too much, since he knew through snippets of Betty’s stories that Betty’s mom had demonstrated a near-destructive obsession with Betty’s weight and body image. It was cruel, however unintentional it was, and Jughead wasn’t going to let Cheryl do that to Betty.

 

Betty had looked surprised, at his audacity or his stupidity, he didn’t know, but Cheryl had given him a withering look and an exasperated sigh. “Whatever. Fine. I take it back, Betty. You are not fat and depressed. I’m projecting, as you probably figured. I’ve gained five fucking pounds eating your heinously delicious food.”

 

“That’s better,” Jughead said, pointedly.

 

“If you were ugly, Jones, I’d slit your throat for speaking to me that way,” Cheryl said, storming out of the room.

 

Betty had watched Cheryl walk off before turning back to Jughead and smiling shyly. “You didn’t have to risk life and limb for me. She hardly means what she says to me anymore when she’s being mean. It’s all just a facade for her.”

 

“She shouldn’t talk to you that way.”

 

“She talks to everyone that way.”

 

“It wouldn’t kill her to have better manners when it’s you,” he said.

 

She took his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you. You’re sweet.”

 

He wanted to pull on that hand, closing the gap between them so that he could turn that chaste little hand-hold into a full blown, tongue on tongue kiss. The thought has already occurred to him several times, and not just when she was close, but while he wasn’t afraid to show her that he liked her, he was a little afraid at what she’d do if he acted on it.

 

Sometimes, he felt that she might welcome it. She certainly never turned his company away and she had become a lot less formal around him, but sometimes he could sense her hesitation and some part of him didn’t want to find out what the hesitation was about. Was she hesitating because he was a guest at her B&B? Or was she hesitating because of her dearly departed spouse?

 

So without those answers, he wasn’t likely to do anything so bold as to kiss her suddenly and see where that got him.  

 

At the moment, she had already pulled away and made her way to the porch, where Kevin was just about finished writing a list of kids they would be employing on the farm for a day. There were cheeses and bath products to be loaded and dispatched onto trucks, and without extra help, the process would be too laborious.

 

As usual, he sat at the porch with his laptop, smoking and writing. He had done a surprising amount of it, considering Cheryl was there to add to the background activity, but even _she_ had known to leave him alone when he was writing.

 

At least she didn’t scare him. Kevin was terrified of her, and gentle Farmer John found Cheryl a bit overwhelming.

 

“God, when is Cheryl leaving? She’s been here a week! I am seriously having nightmares.” Kevin said, looking over his shoulder lest the Red Queen come out to wreak havoc.

 

Betty shrugged. “No idea, Kev. Seriously, though, don’t let her get to you. I know she threatens bodily harm often, but she won’t really kill you.”

 

Kevin looked at her pointedly. “Betty, I know you love her, but that’s because you are a sweet and caring lady. That  woman set her ex’s car on fire. In the middle of Times Square. She can _definitely_ make good on her threats.”

 

“Oh Kevin, believe me. She was my cheerleading captain in high school. There were _plenty_ of times she could’ve killed me. She never did it. And this was when she believed my sister had her twin brother ensnared in a love spell.”

 

Jughead raised his hand to get their attention. “I just want to point out that what you just said isn’t a normal thing to say about someone. I mean that in the nicest way possible.”

 

“He’s right, you know,” Kevin replied.

 

Betty rolled her eyes. “Stop. I don’t care what you both say, she is not capable of half the things she threatens.”  

 

Just then, a truck came into view in the distance. It was kicking up some dust as it went, but it was going at a regular pace. Nothing like the death defying speed of Cheryl’s sports car.

 

Farmer John showed up just as the truck was pulling into the gates and in front of the house.  

 

“Reggie’s here,” Farmer John told Betty.

 

Betty scowled. “Yes, thank you for pointing out the obvious Farmer John. I would’ve liked advanced warning!”

 

Farmer John shrugged, unconcerned. “I only talked to him this morning and he said he was available today.”

 

“Imagine that,” Kevin drawled, his tone laced with sarcasm.

 

The truck’s engine turned off and the driver’s side door opened. Reggie rounded the truck, grinning and putting his arms out. “B Coop!  How are you? Damn, you lookin’ fine girl!” He came up the porch and engulfed Betty in a hug.

 

Jughead scowled.

 

Stiff armed, Betty patted Reggie’s bulging bicep. “Thank you, Reggie. I’m good. I didn’t know you were coming.”

 

Reggie finally let her go. “Well, Farmer John told me you have a fox problem. I said I’d take care of it. I’m staring at a fox _right now_ and it doesn’t look like a problem to me _.”_

 

Betty shot him a look and Jughead had to stifle his real bad need to say something very sarcastic.

 

Farmer John cinched a hand to his waist. “I’m sure you think you’re clever, but your flirting is unbecoming of a professional animal control specialist.”

 

Jughead resisted the grin that threatened to break out of his face.

 

“Hey, you call Reggie, you get the whole package,” he said, lifting the front of his shirt to show his amazingly sculpted abs. “Feel this, Betty.” He actually made a move for her hand, presumably to make her touch his muscles.

 

Jughead had _never_ seen red in his life, until now.

 

Betty wrenched her hand away before he can reach it. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Reg! Cut it out!”

 

Reggie laughed.

 

“I’ll touch your abs, Reggie,” Kevin joked.

 

Reggie was absolutely game for it. “They’re steel, Kev.”

 

Kevin was absolutely going to do it and Betty rolled her eyes and shot Jughead a _can you believe Kevin?_ look.

 

To distract from what was becoming what Jughead would classify as awkward proceedings, Betty sidled up to him and looped her arm around his. “You haven’t met my house guest, Reggie. This is Jughead Jones. Jughead, meet Reggie Mantle.”

 

To Reggie’s credit, he casually dropped his shirt, much to Kevin’s disappointment, and approached Jughead openly, holding out his hand for a shake. “Hey dude, how’s it going?”

 

Jughead finally got a good look of him. The guy was of Asian-European descent, with exotic features and the kind of rock hard body that ladies went nuts for. In spite of the bombastic personality, he seemed enough like an amicable dude that his feelings of outrage just seconds ago was fast dissipating. There was also something powerfully familiar about him. Jughead took the offered hand. “It’s going. You do animal control?”

 

Reggie grinned and nodded. “I am the absolute best in these parts.”

 

She nodded. “That, he is. So Reggie, how are you going to get rid of my fox problem?”

 

“There are a lot of ways to get rid of foxes,” Reggie said. “First I’d have to make sure you don’t have stuff around the property that’s attracting them in the first place. Do you put any meat, dairy, or eggs in your compost?”

 

Betty looked worried. “Egg shells, maybe…”

 

Reggie shook his head. “Quit that. Throw out the egg shells and keep it in the trash. I can install electronic fox deterrents if you like.”

 

“Uh-uh,” Farmer John said. “That’ll do no good for my goats.”

 

“It’ll bother the chickens, too,” Kevin chimed in.

 

“Okay then,” Reggie said. “We’ll need to repel them. I’ve got some fox repellant in my truck. Spray it around, and it works fine, but it you want natural treatment, I can pee some on your property.”

 

“Excuse me?” Betty cried, horrified.

 

“God,” Farmer John groaned. “Its come to this. He’s marking his territory.”

 

“And how’s that going to work, anyway? It’s not like the pee you make can actually cover the entire perimeter of this place. You’d have to consume gallons and gallons of water for three days! And honestly, Reggie, I don’t want your pee in my property. Like, ever.”

 

Reggie grinned again. “Well, obviously, I can’t do all the peeing. Everybody will have to contribute.”

 

Jughead wondered if he was serious.

 

Everyone looked at one another for a few seconds before Betty threw up her hands. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Nobody’s going to be peeing outside of a bathroom around here! Do we understand one another? I’m a B&B and I make bathroom products. Scents are my lifeblood. I can’t have my property smelling like the men’s public bathroom!”

 

Nobody could dispute that.

 

“Fine. No peeing, then. If you want to get rid of them, I’m going to have to shoot them, sweetie. Sorry, but that’s the only way.”

 

Betty’s face dropped. “Like kill them?”

 

“Either that or pee.”

 

“What a choice,” Betty groaned. “How about you just trap them and get rid of them?”

 

“I can trap and relocate them, yeah, but that’ll take weeks.”

 

Farmer John shook his head. “That’s too long. The kids will be born soon and they’ll be in constant danger if there are foxes abroad.”

 

Betty looked torn.

 

Reggie shrugged. “I can tranquilize them and then ship them out. It’ll cost you, though. Those darts are not cheap and I don’t know how many foxes you have.”

 

“That’s fine,” she muttered. “Is it going to hurt them too badly?”

 

“I’m a good marksman, Betty. They’ll be out before they know it. They’ll hardly feel a thing.”

 

She sighed and shook her head, looking down at her feet. “Better than killing them.”

 

He nodded. “I’ll scout around and see if they have any dens. I’ll destroy the dens for you and then I’ll dart them critters.”

 

“How long will it take?”

 

“Probably three days just to make sure I get them all.”

 

Betty nodded. “And how much do you think all this is going to cost me?”

 

“For you, Betty--”

 

She frowned. _“Don’t_ say it, Reginald.”

 

“It’s free if you go out with me!”

Farmer John groaned and Kevin laughed.  

 

Jughead was scowling again. It pissed him off that this yahoo can just go around declaring his intentions to Betty while Jughead made careful circles around her because he basically _did not_ want to screw this up.

 

Betty crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. “You know the definition of crazy, right? It’s when you do things over and over the same way expecting a different outcome. _This_ is getting repetitive.”

 

“So you’re saying I have a chance?”

 

The screen door opened behind them and Cheryl walked out explosively, demanding to know what was going on. She actually pushed between Betty and Jughead, draping an arm around Betty and snaking her arm around his.

 

Jughead was, to say the least, mildly shocked by the contact. Her hand was warm against his skin but he felt so weirded out by it that he wondered if this is what it felt like to be touched by a demon. That she was skimming her manicured fingernails down his arm sent his skin crawling and he shot her a warning glare, which made her grin fiercely back.

 

“Oh, _shit,”_ Reggie cried. “Cheryl’s here. Wassup lesbo? Care to try _this_ out while you’re here?”

 

Cheryl scoffed. “You’re lucky peen does nothing for me, Mantle. Were I of the dick-loving kind, I doubt you’d survive a night with me.”

 

Reggie laughed. “I don’t mind watching, you know.” He transferred his gaze between her and Betty, wagging his eyebrows.

 

Betty shook her head and Cheryl rolled her eyes.

 

“All the way out here and I _still_ have to deal with fuckboys,” Cheryl muttered.

 

“Betty,” Reggie began anew. “Since I’ll be here in the next few days, what do you think about shooting some bottles out back in the river? You know I got the guns, yo.”

 

“You know what, Reg? I think that’s a great idea.”

 

Everyone stared at her in shock. Even Reggie was caught a bit off guard.

 

“You do?” Jughead asked at exactly the same time as Reggie did. He didn’t care. He wanted to make sure his ears were not deceiving him. Did she just agree to a date with Reggie?

 

Then all eyes were on Jughead and _he_ wanted nothing more than to melt through the floor.

 

Tearing her eyes away from him, Betty looked back at Reggie. “Yes. We’ll make a day of it.”

 

“Alright!” Reggie cried, elated.

 

“Everyone’s invited!” Betty added, gleefully.

 

“Oh.”

 

Jughead grinned.

 

“We’ll make it a picnic! Everyone on the farm needs a break and I’ve got two guests--it’s perfect! I’ll take care of the food, naturally, and I’ll set up some tables and tents--”

 

“Farmer John and I will help with that!” Kevin said, putting an arm around Farmer John’s shoulders.

 

“Jughead and I will take care of the drinks,” Cheryl said.

 

“We will?” Jughead asked.

 

Her blood red nails dug painfully into his skin.

 

“We will,” he amended.

 

The pressure of her nails lifted.

 

Betty grinned. “Then we can swim after we shoot.”

 

“Oh, damn,” Reggie gasped. “I’ll get to see you in a swimsuit. Be still my heart.”

 

“Reggie, if you don’t cut it with that dude bro-ing, I will bust out the circa 1900 turn of the century swimwear. Teach you a lesson.”

 

“Bust out?” Jughead couldn’t help but ask. “You mean you have that shit in storage somewhere?”

 

“Well, yeah. It’s fun to have!”

 

Jughead grinned. He could respect that.

 

“Easy, B Coop,” Reggie said. “I’ll behave. In fact, I’ll start working right now.”  He made for his truck’s carriage, taking a duffle bag and swinging a rifle on his shoulder.

 

In spite of herself, Betty asked, “Are you staying for dinner?”

 

“Nah. Gotta drive my mom to her friend’s house. Bridge night. Maybe tomorrow, if all goes well!” He winked.

 

She sighed and shook her head. “Reggie, if I didn’t already know you’re a sweetheart disguised as a douchebag, I’d have kicked you off my property years ago.”

 

“Eh, I’m way too charming to get kicked out of anyone’s property. I’ll see you in a bit. Later dudes!”

 

Betty said nothing as she watched him walk off.

 

“Hmm,” Cheryl said. “Were I straight, I might have tapped that.”

 

Betty cast her an amused look. “Were you straight, I’d have had dead male bodies strewn all over my property.”

 

“That’s true--Jughead, _why_ do you keep pulling your arm back? I like it. It’s nice and strong and you know I won’t bite _you._ You lack a vagina.”

 

“Cheryl,” he said warningly. Lesbian or not, her assumed familiarity was unnerving.

 

“Maybe if your claws weren’t so sharp,” Kevin said from the porch swing.

 

“Watch it, Keller! I’ve choked a gay or two in my day.”

 

Betty chuckled and sidled up to Jughead’s other side to slip her arm around his gently. He smiled at her. Betty, he enjoyed the feel of, around his arm.

 

“See, Cher? You make him cranky,” Betty chimed.

 

Cheryl huffed. “Say what you want about this one, Betty, but he ain’t no wilting flower.” She cast him a warning glare. “Be ready tomorrow at 8 sharp. I’m driving us to town to get those drinks, and I don’t care what you think of these claws. I will scratch you and drag you from bed kicking and screaming if you’re not ready.”

 

“I’m usually up at the crack of dawn. You’re the one who shambles out of bed at 8.”

 

“I’m not interested in facts, Jones. Do as I say!” With that, she turned and went back into the house.

 

Jughead sighed and looked at Betty pleadingly. “Do I have to?”

 

Betty smirked and nodded. “Yes. Do you want me to come with?”

 

He wanted to say, _yes, please join us,_ but he knew she would be busy and he wasn’t a child. “I’m good. I’ve got boxing footwork, remember? I’ll dodge her claws if she goes for my eyes.”

 

“I heard that!” Cheryl said from inside.

 

“I fear for you, son,” Farmer John said.

 

“Oh, don’t,” Betty said, rubbing Jughead’s arm and shooting pleasant tingles through his body. “Cheryl doesn’t scare him. I’ve seen him stand up to her.”

 

“Well, at least one of us can,” Kevin said wearily.

 

Betty patted Jughead’s cheek as she followed Cheryl back into the house.

 

Jughead watched her go for a while. When he finally tore his eyes from the screen door, he found that Kevin and Farmer John were watching him.

 

“What?” he asked with an innocent lilt to his voice.

 

“Boy,” Farmer John drawled, shaking his head and making his way off the porch.

 

“What?” Jughead asked again.

 

Kevin sighed and threw his hands up. “Please put yourself out of your misery and do something already, for fuck’s sake. The tension is killing me!”

 

He left, and Jughead sighed heavily, shoving a cigarette between his lips and lighting it.

  
*****  


When Cheryl ambled out of the house at 9 o’clock in the morning, Jughead had already finished some farm work and he was leaning casually on the passenger side of her sportscar, arms crossed on his chest, and smoking a cigarette.

 

He smirked, an expression of _what did I tell you?_ on his face.

 

Cheryl scowled at him, fiercely. “Wipe that fucking smirk off your face, Jones. You’re lucky you’re a hot piece of ass. I’d have gutted your bowels by now, otherwise.”

 

Words like Cheryl’s would’ve sent him running, normally, but knowing she wasn’t actually interested in men made her less threatening. He stuck the cigarette between his lips and let himself into her car, the grin never leaving his face.

 

Cheryl stared at him as she got into the driver’s side. He winked, amused.

 

She rolled her eyes. “Jesus H. Christ, you’re a sexy motherfucker. No wonder Betty’s panties are all in a twist when you’re around.”

 

He shot her a despairing look. “I should be so lucky.”

 

“Oh, you are, Treasure. Believe me.”

 

She turned on the engine and stepped recklessly on the gas. They ripped out of the farm with alarming speed.

  
****  
  


Being with Cheryl felt like being in a constant state of alert. She was like a bomb always threatening to explode and Jughead didn’t think he could ever handle more than a day of it--and it wasn’t even noon.

 

The entire time they drove, she bitched about her cheating ex-girlfriend and the women she’d encountered at Riverdale Farms. She gave him a blow by blow account of how she got all of them in bed, and then she told him the various reasons she broke up with all of them.

 

She moved on to how she thought Betty can make her business bigger. Cheryl had offered her capital after all, but Betty had refused, preferring to keep it small so she could have complete control over the quality.

 

“It’s such a French Countryside thing to do,” Cheryl had said, her tone dripping with disgust. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, that class is bred into Betty like a stallion. She came by it honestly and she doesn’t even think about it, but I would choose bold and big over that quaint classy shit all the time. It’s way more exciting to rule over an empire from the top of a building than from a farm in the middle of Whatsville.”

 

Jughead had a distinct feeling of foreboding that disagreeing would be the death of him.  Betty didn’t look like someone who craved that corner office at the top of a New York skyscraper. If she ever went bigger, she would take one of those old restored buildings in Brooklyn and run a startup from there.

 

Cheryl moved on to talk about high-society New York, and inevitably asked him about Trula.

 

“Does she sleep with women?” Cheryl asked.

 

Jughead nodded. “She does. Want her number?” The earlier Trula started dating someone else, the better.

 

“Do I want your sloppy seconds?”

 

Jughead laughed in spite of himself.

 

When they got to town, Cheryl made straight for the liquor store and started loading their cart with libations. Jughead knew a thing or two about wine, thanks to the Lodges, and he made a couple of suggestions that impressed Cheryl.

 

“So there’s actually class under all that lumberjack-grunge chic.”

 

Jughead cast her a withering glance. “The Lodges fostered me for a few years. I picked up a thing or two.”

 

“Lodges? Like Hiram Lodge, real estate tycoon?”

 

Jughead nodded. “His daughter, Veronica Lodge, is my best friend. Practically my sister.”

 

“Whoa! Here I was, driving with New York royalty and I didn’t even know it. Your value has increased ten fold.”

 

“My life is complete.”

 

“She’s married to that _Slick Jack_ front man, Archie Andrews, right?”

 

Jughead still couldn’t erase the image of Archie playing guitar and practicing for nothing with his band in his father’s garage whenever somebody referred to him as a “front man.”  There had been too many nights when Jughead had to deal with that shit stoned out of his mind to make it bearable. Still, it also highlighted the fact that Archie was a permanent fixture in his life.

 

“Also my best friend,” he said.

 

“God, you’re low key rubbing shoulders with people who matter! Betty told me none of this!”

 

Jughead chuckled. “Why would she? It’s not that important.”

 

“It’s important to me. I may not be so ashamed to be seen with you in the city.”

 

“Oh? _I’m_ ashamed to be seen with me in the city.”

 

“That self-deprecating vibe may work for most ladies, Jughead, but the likes of me would prefer you charge like a bull, giving zero fucks for the weaklings who couldn’t handle your ten-foot dick.”

 

“My dick is 9 foot-flat.”

 

The couple nearby turned to them at their careless mention of penises and threw them daggered looks.

 

“Move along, you prudes,” Cheryl hissed with a snarl on her face.

 

They did. For their lives.

 

“So are you going to bone my sister-in-law or what?” she asked him, rolling their cart to the craft beers section.

 

“Bone? Yes, I am thinking that, exactly. I want to bone Betty.”  He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Jesus.”

 

“Please. Don’t be such a fucking sap. You can’t tell me that a hunka-hunka lunk like you doesn’t bang ladies on a daily basis.”

 

He gave her a mystified stare. “I have never, in my life, been called that. Like, _ever.”_

 

She pinched his arm, painfully, and he gave a yowl of protest. “Stop evading the question. Unless you’re on a farm in the middle of nowhere, you probably have a constant supply of women.”

 

“For a strong and independent lesbian, you sure objectify women a lot,” he growled, rubbing the sore spot on his arm. “No, I don’t have a ‘constant supply of women.’ And even if I did, I wouldn’t be having sex with them willy nilly. I don’t do that shit. I have to connect with a woman, at the very least on an intellectual level, before I can even _think_ of them without their clothes on.”

 

“Oh, how cute!”

 

“I’m serious, Cheryl. I don’t appreciate you making fun of that.”  And his annoyance was real, not affected, mostly because he didn’t want Cheryl blabbing nonsense about him banging chicks to Betty. He didn’t want Betty thinking he was some fuckboy.

 

She regarded him intently as she rolled their cart to the counter.  He let that silence sit, hauling their alcohol onto the table for the cashier to ring them up.  

 

When they paid for their purchases, Jughead carried most of it out of the store.

 

“What do you want from my sister-in-law?” Cheryl asked as she pulled open the tiny trunk of her sports car.

 

He started strategically packing their purchases into the small space. “In what world would I tell you things like that?”

 

“I’m just curious, Jonesy. I’m wondering why you’re waiting. How long have you been here?”

 

“Little over three weeks.”

 

“Long enough to at least get to first base.”

 

“What are you, thirteen? I haven’t referred to sex as bases for at least 15 years.”

 

Having successfully fitted all their purchases in her trunk, they pressed the trunk shut and got into her car.  

 

“I’ve just seen the way you look at her,” Cheryl said, starting her car and getting into gear. “And I’ve seen the way she looks at you. Most times I feel like you’re not even hiding it. I don’t know what the fucking problem is.”

 

“I’m not hiding it,” he said, taking out a cigarette and lighting up.

 

“Gimme one of those.”

 

He shook one out for her and realized that she wanted him to put it in her mouth. Sighing, he did and lit it for her.  She started driving like the mad woman she was.

 

“Then fucking get to it, already!” she said, almost like a screech.

 

He ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t know why he even felt like he could open himself up to this helion, but here he was, ready to explain himself. He supposed that Cheryl put off that vibe of being an open mic night, where getting up on stage for everyone to hear you sing awful karaoke was permissible, because everyone in the place sounded shitty. “I don’t know. I don’t know what she’ll think of it. Sometimes I think she’ll let me. Other times I think she’s still hung up on her husband. I don’t know how I feel about any of that. And I don’t want things to get weird. I love the way she’s getting comfortable around me.”

 

“Such a gentleman.”

 

He couldn't even tell her how ungentlemanly his thoughts of Betty have been of late. “I’m fucking not.”

 

“Hmm, I get it. Sometimes, I love a good slow burn. Good strategy, Jones.”

 

Jughead frowned. “Let’s be clear. None of this is deliberate. It’s not a strategy. It’s just me figuring things out. Not everybody’s a manipulative bitch, Cheryl.”

 

“You say manipulative bitch like it’s a bad thing.”

 

“And really, how is this any of your concern?” he asked, getting a little pissed.

 

Cheryl growled. “Because try as I might to hate that perky little princess, I love her and I want her to be happy.”

 

“Wait, _love her,_ love her, or--”

 

“Don’t be an idiot. She’s my sister in law!” This time, Cheryl did look insulted for real. “Not only that, she’s my _third_ cousin. Our great-great grandparents are brothers. They had a fight, and one stayed a Blossom while the other took the name Cooper.”

 

Jughead tried to wrap his head around it. “So, wait… but your brother married _her_ sister--”

 

“Yeah, on the other hand, it’s _third_ cousins. They are practically unrelated at this point. All this came to light only after they boned and married, so the weirdness is there and here to stay. But now I know and so Betty and I are, like, _family.”_

 

“Betty is technically a Blossom...”

 

“Well, actually, she’s technically a Cooper. _Genetically,_ she’s a Blossom.”

 

“Right.”

 

“So yes, all of this stupid insinuation that I like her is wrong on several levels. And if I had feelings like that for her, she would be letting me eat her pussy by now. Remember? I get whatever the fuck I want.”

 

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I _really_ wish you wouldn’t talk about her that way.”

 

“God, alright, Sir Lancelot.”

 

“So,” Jughead began, smirking. “You _do_ have a heart hiding in the blackness of your soul.”

 

“Fuck you, Jughead Jones.”

  
  
****  


The picnic set up looked nothing like the picnics Jughead had attended in the past. Even living with the Lodges, he had never seen a picnic quite as exquisite. That may be because the Lodges didn’t like roughing it in any form. “Outside” was a marble pergola overlooking a vineyard in Italy.

 

That said, this wasn’t exactly roughing it, either.

 

Betty’s tables were covered in white cloth and the place settings were nicely appointed, however rustic the plates, bowls, and cutlery were. It looked incredibly fine with wrapped sprigs of her dried flowers accentuating each place setting, and her center piece was a cut log filled with summer blooms and dried lavender.

 

The tent overhead was a pretty, filmy cloth, decorated with flowers and paper balloons, although Betty pointed out that it was more Kevin’s doing than her.

 

The food was relatively more simple, it being picnic style, but it was as good as anything she’d ever prepared. Shrimp salad, pasta in a sun-dried tomato sauce and seasoned chicken, roasted vegetables with a delicious yoghurt dipping sauce, a cheese and fruit plate,  bahn mi sliders, and the best jalapeno poppers Jughead has ever had.

 

The wine he and Cheryl bought was well received, and Betty happily made a fresh Sangria from some of their other selections.  

 

Dessert was Tiramisu in mugs, which looked amazing. Everyone was looking forward to eating them.

 

Betty presided over the table while Cheryl sat on the other end. Jughead elected to sit by Betty, because he always liked being near her.

 

She had her hair up in a ponytail, and her hair was long enough that it swished over her shoulders. Her top was a nice green spaghetti strap that was sexy as hell, clinging to her curves and showing off some of the lacy bra she wore underneath.  Her shorts showed off her amazing legs. Her All-Stars made her look more relaxed than he’d ever seen her.  

 

He stole private conversations with her between periods of table-wide discussion. She leaned over when she replied. She would look at him over her glass of wine and he would smirk when she caught him staring.

 

He watched her lips move as she ate, and when she touched his hand, laughing at something he said, he turned it over in his own so he could hold it.  She looked at him shyly but did not pull her hand away, so he spent the rest of the lunch making idle circles with his thumb on the back of her hand.

 

Their knees touched under the table and she didn’t move it away.

 

“How was your trip with Cheryl this morning?” she asked in a gently teasing tone.  

 

“Invigorating,” he replied, ominously.

 

Betty chuckled. “How many times did she piss you off?”

 

That was a fair question. Cheryl knew how to light a powder keg, that was for sure. “More times than I can count. But I can see why you like her in spite of that.”

 

She blinked at that. “Really?”

 

He nodded. “She cares deeply about people. And when I say deeply, I mean where hardly anyone can see. Like, almost hidden. It takes an excruciating amount of patience to dig it out.”

 

Betty beamed. “Yes. That’s it, exactly. And when she loves, she loves pretty hard.”

 

He played with his lighter, flipping it over and under on the picnic table. He could feel her leg rub lightly against his and he met her gaze, cocking a smile that told her he knew what she was doing down there.  He dropped his hand under the table, placing a hand on her knee and rubbing it gently with his thumb.

 

Her cheeks turned pink. “Tickles.”

 

He moved his hand up ever so slightly and he felt her knee shift to encourage him.

 

This was going where he dreamed it would go, and he was just deciding to take her hand and run with her into the house when Reggie gave a loud whoop.

 

“Shooting time!” Reggie cried.  “B Coop, get over here!”

 

She shot him an apologetic smile and stood to take the rifle Reggie was offering her.  

 

Losing the warmth of her beneath his hand makes him hate Reggie at this very moment. He grabbed a Tiramisu in frustration, stuffing his face with the awesome rich taste of mousse.

 

Betty seemed to know how to handle a rifle real well, checking it, loading it, and holding it with a proper stance.  

 

Earlier, Reggie had taken the small motorboat to the islet at the center of the river. In a long, worn out bench and a few broken tree logs, he arranged a long row of bottles of varying shapes and sized. They were just big enough to be visible from across the shore but small enough to be challenging.

 

Later on, Reggie would have to go again to replenish the bottles, but there were quite a lot at the moment.

 

Betty aimed, fired, and the first bottle was obliterated from sight.  

 

Cheryl gave a cheer. “That’s my girl!”

 

Betty aimed again and shattered the second bottle. Kevin and Farmer John clapped enthusiastically.

 

Reggie looked sincerely impressed. “Damn, girl. You’re good at this!”

 

“I have a brother in the FBI, Reggie. What do you think we do when we hang out?”

 

Jughead arched an eyebrow. “You hang out at the shooting range? Really?”

 

“Damn straight,” she replied. She aimed, fired, and a third bottle exploded.

 

“Well, shit,” Jughead said. “Three out of three.”

 

“Okay, here’s the deal, Betty” Reggie said. “How about I shoot three in a row, and then we’ll take turns after that. If you miss before I do, you have to go on a date with me.”

 

Betty glared at him. “Um, _no.”_

 

“C’mon, are you scared you’ll lose?”

 

“I’m not going to get tricked into giving up my agency, Reggie.”

 

“Ooh, _agency!”_ Kevin gasped, laughing.

 

Cheryl banged the table. “Them fighting feminist words, Betty! I like it.”

 

“Count on the lesbian to say the F word,” Reggie muttered.  

 

Betty frowned, gun on one hand and hip on the other. “You have a problem with the F word, Reg?”

 

Reggie at least had the grace to look the tiniest bit uneasy, as if he had just realized he was digging himself into a hole.

 

“This is not going well for you, Mantle,” Jughead drawled.  

 

Reggie threw his hands up. “All I know is, when the F word is mentioned, my peen shrivels.”

 

“Pretty sure none of us needed that visual,” Jughead replied. “Gay or straight.”

 

“Shriveled peens are the worst,” Kevin grumbled.

 

Farmer John just shook his head and closed his eyes in devout disapproval.

 

“This is why I love pussy,” Cheryl said. “They can never shrivel. Well… as long as Kegels are employed on a regular basis.”

 

“This would’ve been a perfect conversation over oysters,” Kevin said.

 

“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation over my beautifully appointed picnic table,” Betty breathed exasperatedly.

 

Cheryl stood and demanded her turn. She knew how to handle the rifle and she managed to get two out of four attempts. Farmer John tried as well and managed a few bottles himself. When Reggie’s turn came, he shot five out of five.  

 

“I’m telling you, B Coop. We would’ve been evenly matched,” Reggie said.  

 

She ignored that last quip and turned to Jughead. “Do you want to try, Juggie?”

 

Jughead sniffed and stood. “Sure. Can you teach me?”

 

“Of course. Reg? Give the man a rifle.”

 

Reggie handed the rifle to him and Jughead was taken back to the days when his gang gave him a shotgun. The rifle felt lighter, then again, he was only 16 when they gave him the gun. He wasn’t exactly a muscular kid. He had mostly been given handguns, since they were easier to hide under a jacket, but shotguns were dramatic and good for scaring people.

 

Betty put her arms around him to get him in position. When she taught him how to line up his target, she got even closer, which was the goal all along.  

 

As he tilted his head to get his target in sight, he whispered. “I have a confession to make.”

 

“What?” she asked.

 

“I’ve handled guns before. I just wanted you to put your arms around me.”

 

She gasped and stepped away, laughing. “Juggie!” She slapped his arm.

 

“Whoa! Easy! I have a gun!”  

 

“What’s happening?” Kevin asked.

 

“Jughead’s being silly,” Betty said, blushing.  “He was messing with me. He knows how to use a gun.”

 

Cheryl arched an impressed eyebrow. “Sneaky. I like it.”

 

“Oh, pulling out all the stops, are you?” Reggie said. “Let’s see how you shoot.”

 

Jughead managed 3 out of 4. It wasn’t bad, considering he hadn’t used a gun in over a decade.

 

“Where’d you learn to shoot, man?” Reggie asked.

 

Jughead shrugged, unwilling to mention his gang past. “Just lucky, I guess.” He handed the rifle back to Reggie.

 

Farmer John shot a few more bottles and Kevin, who had never held a gun in his life in spite of being the Sheriff’s son, tried his hand at it and missed every single bottle. He did, however, manage to shoot down some random bird who happened to be flying overhead, which was a feat unto itself, since he wasn’t even supposed to be aiming anywhere near upward.

 

The dead bird plunged to its grave in the middle of the lake.  

 

 _"Fuck,”_ Kevin hissed. “I killed something.”

 

“And the cycle of life continues,” Jughead said.

 

“With a bullet to the brain,” Cheryl finished morbidly.

 

Farmer John starts to cry and Betty automatically handed him a tissue and puts an arm around him.

 

Reggie stood back and looked at all of them. “Ya’ll are nuts. It’s just a dead bird.”

 

Jughead just realized that they all reacted to it exactly the way they were supposed to.  

 

Betty sighed and cast Jughead a small smile. “So, anybody want to go for a swim?”

  
***  


The fact that a freshly dead bird was at the bottom of the river did not deter their group from swimming in it. The bird had been deep enough and far enough that they could tell themselves that the water was completely free of death.

 

At any rate, when Betty had asked everybody about swimming, Jughead was the first to say, “That’s a great idea.”

 

He realized without thinking about it much that his need to see Betty in a bathing suit had dominated his mind, and now he was shameless about it. That both Cheryl and Reggie had grinned simultaneously and he understood why—Reggie, because he likely wanted to see Betty in a swimsuit too and Cheryl, because she knew _Jughead_ wanted to see Betty in a swimsuit—was another quick realization that he was really getting in the weeds of this place.  

 

He had managed to scrounge up swim shorts from his luggage. He had traveled enough times to know that he would need swimwear every once in awhile. He threw on a white tank, mainly because the presence of a dinner table still tended to make him feel like he shouldn’t be walking around barechested. It was definitely a remnant of his days living with the Lodges, when he had to be constantly dressed for meals.

 

Kevin and Reggie had no such reservations, and Farmer John, true to character, wore a hawaiian shirt, regular shorts, and a huge straw hat.  He walked around with a sangria in his hand and pulled out a lawn chair, sitting by the riverbank to disapprove of their foolish antics, which was mostly Kevin and Reggie outdoing one another, diving off a nearby jetty.

 

Cheryl was predictably elegant. Her swimsuit was naturally red, and while it was technically a one-piece suit, it had so many cuts and holes that it was closer to a two piece held together by swaths of cloth and pieces of string. She looked good in it, of course, and with her huge designer glasses, she came out looking like a vixen fit to grace the cover of a magazine.  

 

Reggie was loudly appreciative, which earned him the finger.   

 

“You want it!” he cried right back. Then he looked over to Jughead, who was standing beside him. “She wants it.”

 

“Yeah, getting the finger usually means exactly that.”

 

Reggie chortled and tapped him gamely on the shoulder.

 

It was about that time that Betty sauntered out of the house in a white two piece bathing suit. It wasn’t fancy or overtly provocative, but Jughead was completely hypnotized. Her legs, for one, were incredibly long. He knew that Betty was relatively tall, even if he stood half a foot taller than her, but he had only ever seen her in dresses and jeans. Shorts, today. This was a revelation of more epic proportions.

 

Her tattoo was in full display, but that couldn’t distract from the feminine flatness of her stomach and that beautiful, beautiful cleavage.

 

_“Oh, fuck.”_

 

“You got that right.”

 

It took a second for Jughead to realize he had spoken first and that Reggie was just responding to him.  

 

“Jesus,” Jughead whispered. “I’m so fucking dead.”

 

Reggie stifled a laugh and tapped him on the shoulder again. “Welcome to my world! I got weed. Wanna commiserate?”

 

Jughead looked at him sharply, a protest on the tip of his tongue. Not for the weed, but for the idea that he was in the same bucket as Reggie, where Betty had no reservations turning him down for all to see.  Then again, he wanted the weed.

 

The weed won for now. “I’m down.”

  
***  
  


As Betty lay tanning on her stomach beside Cheryl, she glanced over at Reggie and Jughead who were smoking something on the jetty, their feet in the water.

 

They seemed to be getting along, with Reggie constantly slapping Jughead on the back and Jughead saying something in that sardonic mannerism he was so perfect with.   

 

“What are they doing?” Cheryl asked. “Are they talking?”

 

“They’re smoking weed,” Betty drawled, laying her head back down on her arms. The sun was comfortably hot and she felt lazy enough that she was enjoying it.  

 

“And they aren’t sharing?”

 

“Reggie always has a lot of it. Ask for some later. I’m too lazy to get up and do it now.”

 

Cheryl probably felt as lazy as she did because she didn’t argue.  Instead she said, “Your man looks hot.”

 

Betty didn’t even need to ask whether she meant Jughead or Reggie. “He’s not my man.”

 

“You were playing footsy with him at lunch and he was getting handsy. He’s your man.”

 

Betty groaned. “How in the world did you know that?”

 

“I have x-ray vision. Also, you were doing that thing with your shoulders, when you tilt it at a certain angle. You were flirting like crazy. I could see _your_ hands, but one of his was nowhere to be seen. Conclusion: You guys were getting all bothered under the table.”

 

“You know, you should work for a gossip magazine and be their official body language expert.”

 

“Please, it doesn’t take an expert with you guys. The sexual tension is frankly making _me_ horny. I had to get myself off this morning to a picture of Ruby Rose.”

 

“Jesus, Cheryl,” Betty moaned. “Oversharing, maybe?”

 

“So what’s the holdup, Sandra Dee?” Apparently, she refused to be deterred. “You obviously do it for each other, so why aren’t you fucking each other’s brains out?”

 

Betty rolled her eyes and pushed herself up by her elbows to look Cheryl in the face. “Don’t be indelicate, Cher.”

 

“He’s looking at your ass right now.”

 

Betty had to admit that gave her a deep thrill. “Is he still looking?”

 

“Yep.”

 

She grinned and shimmied her shoulders delightedly.

 

“So you like his attention?” Cheryl asked.

 

“Of course I like his attention. Do you see what I see?”

 

Cheryl smirked.  “I may like pussy, but yeah, I see it. He isn’t stacked but that body on him is fucking king. That tattoo--”

 

 _“Bold but faithful,”_ Betty sighed. “I know.”

 

Cheryl arched an eyebrow. “I was talking about the dragon. Where is this Bold but Faithful tattoo you’re talking about?”

 

It occurred to Betty that _that_ tattoo was completely covered by his tank. She felt her face grow instantly warm. “It’s under his navel. Saw it first when he was helping Kevin dig out a trench.”

 

“Ooh, what a sexy beast.”

 

“You’re telling me.”

 

“So what are you waiting for? Want him to make the first move? Because I can make it happen.”

 

“Stay out of it, Cher.”

 

“Is it Trev? Is that what’s keeping you?”

 

Betty sighed and turned over, lying on her back. “I don’t know. A little bit, but not in the way you think.  I’ll always miss Trev and he showed me this life, this life that I _really_ love, and I think I may be ready to move on from him, except…”

 

“Except?”

 

“Except that I feel guilty forgetting him.”

 

“Forgetting him? That’s not possible.”

 

She threw her arm over her eyes, feeling that familiar frustration bubbling up in her chest. “It _is,_ Cher. It totally is. I thought at first I’d never forget, either. I mean of course, I’ll never forget the dates we had, or that he was my husband, and that the happiest years of my life to this day were with him, but I’m forgetting other important things, like how it felt to be in his arms, or how his kiss felt, or even how I got so turned on by him when he wore that cowboy hat and wrangled horses. I’m forgetting the things that made me so constantly in love with him, Cher. And I feel like I’m betraying him _because_ I am now enjoying the best of what he left me. I mean, the least I could do is remember, right?”

 

“The least you can do is get laid and enjoy it.”

 

Betty sighed. “I don’t know why I come to you for these things.”

 

“Because I give swift kicks to the ass. I’m not tender like Kevin. He spoils you.” Cheryl leaned up on her elbows. “Look, I’ve never lost anyone I love to death. It’s not a loss I completely understand, but if there’s anything I know, it’s to never feel guilty about the things you earned. None of this was here when Trev was alive, Betty. Trev wanted to breed horses and sell beef. That was never for you, and I’m not saying that he would’ve held you back. You probably would’ve found some way to make it even better, but when he died, it quickly became apparent that it wasn’t for you, so you shifted gears, and everything’s been different since then. All of this--you made this by yourself. It’s all you. And the reason that boy’s so gone on you is because of what you are. Right now. You have absolutely nothing to feel guilty about.”

 

Betty found herself listening and marveled at the fact that Cheryl had words that made sense. Not that Cheryl was ever dumb, but she never seemed to care enough about other people to actually dole out wisdom for their own good. This was definitely out of the ordinary.  

 

Or maybe Betty just wasn’t giving Cheryl the credit she deserved.

 

“That was--”

 

“Good, right? I’m telling you, Betty. You stick with me, you go places.”

 

Betty smiled and sat up, waving to Reggie and Jughead and yelling at them to share the weed.

  
  
****  


It was not lost on Jughead that watching Betty getting a tan was mildly creepy, but it was impossible to tear his eyes away, not when she had a butt as perfect as that, not when he was high on weed.

 

“Dude, you stare at her any harder and you will burn a hole through her,” Reggie said, taking another toke before passing it back to Jughead.

 

Jughead shot him a sidelong glance but took the stub to take a puff of his own. He held his breath for a few seconds before letting the smoke out.  “It doesn’t matter. She knows I like her.”

 

Reggie laughed, madly. “Man, I’ve been where you are for the last six years, maybe longer if you count the years I actually _started_ liking her, but she was my best bud’s wife, so you see how awkward that could’ve been if I had told him.”

 

Jughead frowned. “Trev was your best bud?”

 

“Since we were kids.”

 

“And you had designs for his _wife?”_ He hated to relegate Betty to “wife” but in this context, that fact was kind of essential.

 

“Hey, give me some credit. I never let anyone know I liked Betty until after Trev died. You know, bro code and everything.”

 

“Sure.”  Not that Jughead actually got it. He and Archie never had problems with liking the same women. They had different types, and so it never became an issue, but there had always been an ever-present consciousness of “which girl is Archie’s type?”  So maybe he understood it to a certain level.

 

“At any rate, Betty and I are never going to happen,”  Reggie said. He didn’t sound sad about it, however. It was just fact, and maybe it was why Reggie was so loud about liking her. At this point, there was just no sense in hiding it and getting nowhere.  He was putting it out there, even if he knew, perhaps in the off chance that she would mercy-date him, or something. “I’ve got a shit-ton of Trev Baggage all over me. She doesn’t need that in her life.”

 

Jughead nodded, taking another toke of the marijuana. He looked at Betty again, and now she was on her back and one leg was curled up. He could look at that amazing body all day, mostly because he was high out of his mind.

 

After a while, Betty waved at them, and he thought she was asking them to share the weed. He wasn’t sure, but when Reggie tapped his shoulder and got up, telling him that the girls wanted to get high, he didn’t question it.

 

Kevin joined them on the riverbank, where the girls were sunning, and they all puffed on Reggie’s weed while Farmer John watched disapprovingly from his lawn chair.  

 

Jughead planted himself beside Betty, passing her the weed and watching her take a puff. He was mesmerized by her lips blowing out the smoke.

 

The weed was passed around, and a couple more rounds and Betty and Cheryl were giggling madly. One more round and Betty was leaning over his shoulder, whispering in his ear, “You look really nice in that tank.”

 

He was too high to appreciate her compliment properly, but he was high enough to loop an arm over her shoulders without a hint of hesitation. “Oh yeah? Well, you look _super_ nice in that swimsuit.”

 

She giggled. “I thought you’d like it.”

 

He grinned goofily. Somewhere in the depths of his brain, it registered that she wore it specifically for him, because he pulled her closer and placed a soft kiss on her lips.

 

She blinked up at him in surprise, then she smiled. “Do it again,” she breathed.

 

“You’re high,” he drawled.

 

She touched his nose. “So are you!”

 

“Check back with me in a couple of hours.”

 

She sighed, smiling up at him. “When we’re sober?”

 

He nodded, grinning and bumping his forehead to hers. She giggled and fell back on her beach towel.  He lay back beside her, their heads touching as they stared up at the dimming sky.  

 

“Did you have a good time today?” she asked.

 

“I did. I always have a good time here.”

 

“Even when you’re working the farm?”

 

“Even then.”

 

Betty beamed. “Me too.”

 

Bodies began dropping around them, high as they were on the riverbank.   

  
*****  
  


Jughead didn’t remember what time he ambled into bed. All he knew was that after Betty indulged their munchies with burger sliders and fries, everyone felt way too relaxed to do anything else.

 

Farmer John took the car keys of both Reggie and Kevin, both of whom did not protest and shambled drunkenly up the rooms without being told where.

 

Jughead could only assume this sort of thing had happened before and they knew where their rooms were.

 

So when Jughead passed out, it hardly occurred to him that Kevin was sprawled on half of the bed.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, all your wonderful words in the comments pepper my day with fuzzy feelings. Thank you.


	5. Making Space to Fill a Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will it take, she thought, for her to just go ahead and jump his bones? He was possibly everything she wanted in a man: Kind, handsome, watches Parks and Rec…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you seen Ep. 2 Season 2 of Riverdale? Can I just say that it was awesome, that the Cheryl vs. Betty vibe killed me in a good way and that Bughead was super cute and it felt like falling in love with them all over again.

_ Excerpt from  _ **_Harvest to Home_ ** **,** **_Making Space to Fill a Home_ **

 

_ “One of my favorite design challenges is making space where once there wasn’t. Clever overhangs and secret cubbies give so much character to a house while allowing our more creative selves to exist without the clutter that comes with what I like to call enthusiastic creation.  _

 

_ For my home, it is my not-so-secret desire to make use of the hollow beneath the stairs. The decision to turn it into an open bookshelf, a charming little reading area, or a place to store items that I cannot bear to part with consumes me, but whatever I decide to do--or whatever it is you decide to do for  _ your  _ space--that precious real estate can make the plainest areas glow bright with personality...” _

 

_ \--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast _

  
  
  
  


Jughead felt gross waking up. He hadn’t showered from the previous day’s activities and he must have forgotten to brush his teeth. 

 

His head ached, too. He must’ve smoked way too much weed. Or maybe Reggie’s stash was more potent than he thought. 

 

When he turned over in bed, he realized he wasn’t alone.

 

He cracked an eye open and saw the back of Kevin Keller’s head.

 

Jughead groaned and momentarily wondered if he was in a monumentally awkward situation. He lay there, wracking his brain for any recollection on how he and Kevin had ended up in bed together.

 

He looked at himself and saw that he was still wearing his swim shorts and tank. Memories of him stumbling in the dark and passing out on a bed came to him. He was momentarily relieved at the fact that he hadn’t just had gay sex high on weed.

 

Sighing, he sat up and realized he wasn’t even in his room.

 

“Jesus,” he croaked.

 

Kevin stirred, turning over as his eyes cracked open ever so slightly, but when Kevin saw him, he gasped and scrambled for the sheets to cover his bare chest. “Oh, my God, Jones! Did we--”

 

“Relax,” Jughead said. “Nothing happened. I passed out in the wrong room.”

 

Kevin let out a relieved breath, running a hand through his hair. “Christ, almighty. You fucking idiot! G-Get out!”

 

“Alright,” Jughead groaned. “I’m going. Jeez, don’t be such a homophobe.”

 

Kevin threw a pillow at him.

 

Jughead stood but his head spun slightly and he had to sit back down. “Just give me a second. Fuck, where the fuck did Reggie get this shit?”

 

“He grows it himself. He calls it his own special strain.”

 

“Right.”  Jughead fell back in bed, pulling the pillow over his face. “Does he coat this stuff in roofies? Mother of God. What time is it?”

 

“It’s five in the morning,” Kevin replied, sighing. “Shit. I have to get up for work.”

 

Jughead did, too. “Five more minutes,” he moaned from under his pillow. 

 

“You’re already awake. And you’ve had plenty sleep. We were all out by 8 last night.”

 

“Whatever. That shit was potent.”

 

“Potent enough to make out with Betty.”

 

Jughead remembered. He wasn’t so high that he would forget. “It was one kiss. No tongue, even. And we were both high, so I don’t even know if it counts.”

 

“Oh, it counts, Jones. You better think it does, or I will punch you in the fucking face.”

 

Jughead wasn’t going to argue. He wanted it to count, but that was not just up to him.  He sighed and curled up on his side. 

 

Trying his very best to keep his eyes open, he directed his gaze at Kevin sheepishly. “So, I was wondering if you’d be willing to help me out.”

 

“Okay… in what way?”

 

“Like--does Betty like Italian food?”

 

Kevin’s expression fell flat and Jughead saw it. 

 

“Okay, not Italian, then.” That certainly ruled out the cute tratorias he saw in town. 

 

“French,” Kevin said. “She loves French food. She likes Italian just fine, but if you’re thinking of bringing her to the ones you saw in town, that would be tres boring.”

 

“It’s already gone from my mind. Any suggestions?”

 

“There’s a lovely French bistro just about 30 miles out. A little secret the upstate gays like to keep. It’s called Provence and it’s hidden in this cheap looking strip mall, but it’s awesome and Betty would love it.”

 

“You’re awesome, Kev. Have I told you that before?”

 

“Not lately, no.”

 

“You’re awesome.”

 

“Thank you. I try. Now we need to get a move on. It’s getting late...”

 

“Okay… should I leave the room first or should we--”

 

Kevin punched his arm. “That’s not funny!”

 

Jughead laughed in spite of himself. “No? I thought it was pretty funny.”

 

“Go now, Jones. I have to get ready for work! Are you helping today or staying in?”

 

“Helping. It’s delivery day, isn’t it? All hands on deck.”

 

“Then get your butt out of my bed.”

 

“Is this how you treat all of your one night stands?”

 

“Out!”

 

Jughead dragged himself out of Kevin’s room. As he padded to his room next door, he heard bustling downstairs in the kitchen. He supposed Betty was awake already.

 

Hurriedly, he showered and got dressed for the day.

 

By the time he ambled downstairs, his headache was almost gone and he was fully awake and ready to do his work. 

 

Breakfast was already laid out on the table when he arrived at the kitchen.

 

When Betty saw him, she smiled brightly. “Good morning!” She handed him coffee and two tablets of Tylenol.

 

He was never so thankful of her near-psychic abilities. He popped the tablets in his mouth, washing it down with some water.

“Thanks,” Jughead said with a sigh. “How did you--”

 

“This was not the first time I’ve had Reggie’s weed,” she said.

 

“Yeah, it’s something else,” Jughead said, sinking into a seat as he sipped his coffee. “I woke up in Kevin’s room.”

 

She arched an eyebrow. 

 

“Nothing happened,” Jughead drawled. “I passed out there last night by mistake.”

 

He could tell that she was stifling a laugh.

 

“You find this funny?”

 

She nodded, her lips pursed tightly as her eyes danced with merriment. “And what did Kevin have to say about it?”

 

“He threw me out. Rudely. What a queen.”

 

She laughed this time, taking a seat beside him. “I’m a bit surprised you’re up. You don’t have to get up like everyone else. You’re not being paid to do this. Maybe I  _ should  _ pay you.”

 

He shook his head. He couldn’t exactly explain to her how all this farm work was making him feel so much a part of something while getting him far in the workings of his book. This was becoming a defining experience. “I like this work. I enjoy it.”

 

“I love it, but I get something out of it.”

 

“So do I.”

 

She smiled at him plaintively, and right now, the way they were seated at the table, he was reminded of their conversation the day before, when they  _ weren’t  _ high, and she was letting him hold her hand, and her knee. He wondered about that more than the kiss, because they were both clear of mind. 

 

There was shuffling from the stairs and he could have sworn Betty had exhaled a frustrated sigh. 

 

Kevin arrived, and shortly Farmer John and Reggie.  

 

Whatever talk they needed to have, Jughead would have to wait a while longer. 

 

***

 

The hired kids arrived at the farm and there was a constant flurry of activity.  Bath products and cheeses were packed in boxes, labeled, inventoried, and loaded in trucks. 

 

The loading was perhaps the easiest. It was the cataloguing that took forever, and it required multiple people working at once. 

 

Jughead was in charge of looking down a list and making sure bath products and labels matched. The kids were sharp, and they didn’t take bullshit, but they appeared to like him. Maybe there was some kind of radar between kids that grew up in tough homes. Maybe they knew each other, because Jughead saw it in their eyes, that wariness of strangers, that kindred recognition of shared pain, and that need for someone-- _ anyone  _ to understand, even if that someone was no good for you, like a gang. 

 

“Mr. Jones,” said one of the kids, a young girl with tight dreads and wearing thick baggy clothes in spite of the late summer heat. Her name was Kaela, and she looked him in the eye as she spoke.

 

“What’d I say, Kaela?” he reminded her, smirking.

 

She grinned. “Jughead.”

 

“That’s better.”

 

She gestured to his arm, where the sleeve of tattoos were visible on his forearms. “Are those gang tattoos?”  

 

Jughead debated telling them at first. Did admitting he was in a gang affirm their need for them? Or was this something that would actually be helpful to them?  He decided that lying to them wouldn’t help anything to begin with, so he nodded. “Most of them are.”

 

At this point, there were three other sets of ears listening to him speak as they worked.   

 

“Are you still in the gang?” Kaela asked. 

 

He shook his head. “No. I got out of it.”

 

“How’d you do that?”

 

He chose his words carefully. He was lucky. He had people around him. These kids may believe they have no one, and if they thought the gang was their only ticket out, they may lose hope. “I wanted out, so I had to find a way. I did, but it wasn’t easy. I had to find something I could do  _ without  _ the gang to back me up. I had to be independent from  _ them,  _ but I came to realize something important: I needed help. It took some doing to trust other people, but when I did begin to trust, I got help the help I needed. I could have had a dozen friends outside of the gang willing to help me, but if I didn’t let them, then none of their kindness would’ve mattered.”

 

He paused, watching the faces around him and letting his words sink in.  He had a kind of optimism for the world, no matter how shitty his childhood had been. There will  _ always  _ be people willing to reach out, even if they weren’t people like Archie and Veronica’s family.  There were teachers, social workers, foster families--you just had to let go, painfully, of the ones you trusted first. In his case, it had been his parents.  

 

“My dad was in jail and my mom thought I would follow right after him,” Jughead continued. “I didn’t have them around to give me a hand, and the sooner I realized that they weren’t going to become the parents I wanted them to be, I was able to see the help other strangers offered. The gang was the easiest one, of course, but even if you don’t see it now, it will come with a heavy price later. Had I stayed in the gang, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have written two books and made money off it.”

 

Another kid, a young boy wearing a purple top and skinny jeans, raised a hand. 

 

Jughead chuckled. “You don’t have to raise your hand, Dante. This isn’t a classroom. You got a question for me?”

 

“Yeah. You published a couple of books? What are they called?”

 

“ _ Epistrophe  _ and  _ Goodbye, Sugar Pie Blues.” _

 

“I read that!” Dante cried. “I read that first one! You’re J. Jones!”

 

Jughead was a little surprised. Not that he didn’t think any of these kids read, but his books weren’t exactly on the class list.  And these kids were too young for them, anyway. Then again, he remembered he had been reading wildly outside of his supposed reading level by the time he was 13, and all these kids were at least 16 years old.

 

“His hero’s a black dude, yo!” Dante proclaimed, grinning. “I totally dig it. He plays a mean trumpet and he solves crimes. I haven’t gotten to the second book, but I want to!”

 

Several kids surrounding him, many of them kids of color, rose up and started asking Dante about  _ Epistrophe.  _ Dante said he didn’t want to give them  _ all  _ the details, but that he really liked the book and that Jughead was pretty good at this writing shit. 

 

Jughead couldn’t help but chuckle, a warmth blooming in his chest. He always wanted to have this kind of experience with kids, but his books were not age appropriate, so he’d never really interacted with 16 year olds about his book. This was certainly out of the ordinary. 

 

Betty came up to them, probably drawn by the excited ruckus surrounding him. She slipped an arm over his shoulders and rubbed gently, smiling down on him as he sat on one of the work benches.  

 

“Betty, Jughead is a writer!” Kaela cried, completely oblivious to the fact that Betty probably would’ve known that. 

 

Betty grinned. “I knew that, Kaela, but yeah, it’s pretty amazing.”

 

“So he wrote this book I read,” Dante said excitedly. “And I was just telling these fools how they should check it out.”

 

“They not for 16 year olds,” Jughead told Betty aside. “But I haven’t the heart to--”

 

Betty patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Dante, what’d your momma think about you reading that book?”

 

Dante shrugged. “She okay with it. So long as I was reading. And he an interesting character. Got demons, and he fightin’ through it, doing good even if he needs that fix. He should be getting help, but it’s tough. It’s tough! Is he getting better in the next book?”

 

Jughead wasn’t one to give out spoilers, but he felt there was a lesson here. “A little. But it’s never easy, Dante, so I have to show that, too. I wanted it to be honest.”

 

Dante and several kids around him nodded. 

 

“Yeah,” Dante said. “Yeah, J. D’as honest. Ain’t easy or pretty.”

 

“He’s a lot better in the third book. And he’s met someone. I haven’t told  _ anyone  _ that except my editor, so you guys have the inside scoop.”

 

Dante squealed and bumped the kid closest to him with his shoulder. Everyone oohed around him, giggling and bouncing on their seats. 

 

Jughead felt their excitement and maybe it was times like these that he felt outside of himself and he realized he was part of something bigger whether he liked it or not. 

 

“Anyone else interested in reading my books?” Jughead asked. 

 

Hands shot up in the air.  

 

“Okay, so listen,” he said. “My books aren’t for kids--”

 

Betty giggled. “Yeah, that’s going to make them  _ not  _ read it.”

 

The kids around them laughed loudly. 

 

She was right, of course, and his chest was bubbling with his own delight.  _ “As I was saying-- _ so I’m going to ask you nicely to tell your parents or guardians about it first, but if you want to read my book, give me your addresses and I’ll send you copies, free. Cool?”

 

“Yeah!” everyone cried, clapping excitedly.  

 

Dante frowned. “Do I get a copy? I read the one from the library--”

 

“Of course you’ll get one, Dante. I’ll sign all the copies, how about that?”

 

“D’as cool, J. Thanks!” He held up a fist. Jughead bumped it, and Dante drew him into a somewhat elaborate handshake that Jughead could only go with, which he did with unexpected grace. 

 

When the kids finally settled down, flush with the prospect of getting new books in the mail  _ signed  _ by the author who wrote them, Betty gave him a hug from behind and whispered in his ear. 

 

“Thank you.”

 

He grinned and looked over his shoulder at her. “A hug? That’s it?”

 

Her cheeks flamed red and she bit her lip, grinning. She leaned over and gave him an unhurried kiss on his cheek. He shifted, perhaps hoping to catch her lips with his, and he almost did. Her eyes gleamed knowingly and he practically dared her with his eyes to try it again. 

 

A chorus of excited squeals and shouts erupted around them.

 

“Betty and Jughead sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” chanted the kids all at once.

 

Jughead chuckled and Betty’s face got redder. She laughed and pulled away, telling all the kids to settle down, they’d had their fun. 

 

She had to leave and attend to other things and Jughead could only watch her go.

 

Kaela nudged Jughead’s shoulder and nodded approvingly. “That was smooth, yo, but a chick like that ain’t easy. You gotta keep at it.”

 

Jughead nodded, chuckling. Many of these kids had worked at the farm many times and he could tell they regarded Betty with reverence. She was teaching them things that were helping them in real life, and Kevin had mentioned that she always offered them sanctuary and refuge, free of charge. It didn’t surprise Betty that she didn’t get more kids coming to her when they needed someone like her to look out for them. She was absolutely aware that they were afraid she wouldn’t understand--the woman in the big house with the fancy soaps, but she tried, anyway, whenever she had these monthly shipments, or when she dropped in at the nearest youth center. 

 

“They came more frequently when Trev was here,” Kevin had explained. “But it’s been tougher to get their trust since he died, even with Farmer John here. Not their fault. They’d gotten burned so many times.”

 

Jughead knew what that was like. This group had regulars and they were the most likely to run to the farm for help, but it was difficult to communicate that all were welcome.

 

“Got any tips?” Jughead asked Kaela.

 

“Cook her dinner. Ladies love that,” Kaela said, winking.

 

“No way in hell I can cook anything better than Betty can. What do you think about me bringing her to some fancy French bistro?”

 

Kaela gave it a thought then nodded. “Sounds good, Jughead. I think you might get points for that.”

 

Jughead chuckled. He gave her shoulder a nudge. “Thanks. Now let’s get this batch packed, or Kevin’s going to come over and nag us…”

  
  
  
  


Betty flopped on the couch, exhausted by delivery day as she always was, but it was always the good kind of exhaustion, partly because it was the culmination of a month’s worth of work in bath products and six month’s work in cheese. Cheryl had made an appearance at some point, frightening all but two teenagers whom she appointed as her minions to help with quality control and dispatch. 

 

But when it got too hot and when her minions were taken from her, she retired to her room, claiming a headache.

 

The rest of them carried on until the end of the day. She paid all the kids their due in cash and she fed them all before they left. She sent them away with packed dinners, as well. She knew the kids loved sharing their takeaway with their families. 

 

Kevin, Reggie, and Farmer John had already left and Betty did some last minute cleanup with Jughead’s help.

 

No matter how tired she got on delivery day, however, it was always worth the effort. The kids had a fulfilling day and that’s what mattered. They earned their pay, they were fed delicious food, and Jughead promised them signed copies of his book.

 

She listened to Jughead talking to his agent on the phone, telling her to send twenty copies of both his books to the farm and mailing labels for when he sends them out to the kids. 

 

“I’ll email their addresses to you,” Jughead said, with all the surety of having people getting things done for him. “Thanks, Ethel. Bye.”

 

He collapsed on the other end of the couch, sighing and leaning his head back on the soft cushion. “What a day,” he said. “What a great day.”

 

When he said things like that, she was halfway ready to throw herself on him and possibly do unimaginable things to him. 

 

She sank back on the couch, probably to restrain herself. “It was. And thank you so much for all the things you did, helping out, offering your books… you’re a wonderful human being, Juggie.”

 

He waved away her words bashfully. “It was nothing.”

 

“It meant a lot to the kids. And they really liked you. It’s like you spoke their language.”

 

He shrugged. “Just a shared experience, I think. More than half of these kids are being recruited by gangs, if they aren’t there already. I get it, so they don’t feel like they have to explain themselves.”

 

She nodded, sighing. “I understand. A lot of people have let them down. Trust is difficult and it’s on me for them to gain that trust.”

 

“They love you, Betts,” he said reassuringly, reaching out to rub her feet. “They look at you and they see an angel.”

 

She tried not to get too distracted by the warmth and strength of his hands. She tilted her gaze at him. “I don’t want to be an angel. I want to be the kind old lady they feel they can come to.”

 

He chuckled. “Alright, first of all, none of them will ever see you as an old lady. Secondly, these kids need an angel to look to. Their lives can be very dark. They need to follow a light. And last but not least, many of them already feel they can come to you. Just be patient. They’ll see it--that you care. Besides, you’re not alone in this. Maybe for some kids, it’s Kev or Farmer John who brings them in. Maybe it’s me. Who knows? Whatever it takes, right?”

 

It felt nice to have someone to talk to like this at the end of the day. She could recall many times in her life the past six years where she just wished she could sit on a couch and unwind with someone about both serious and silly things. Someone who didn’t have to go when the wine or tea was done. Someone who was actually going to stay. 

 

Even if Jughead’s stay was only temporary, extended though it was, it felt for now like he was sticking around. 

 

“I’m glad you’re here, Juggie,” she said, softly. Tiredly. 

 

He rubbed her foot a bit more before patting it lightly. “Get you to bed, Cooper. You did good work today. You deserve a good night’s rest.”

 

He was right, and loathe as she was to remove her feet from Jughead’s soothing massage, she sighed. “You, too.”

 

He nodded. “I’ll be up in a bit. Thought I might watch an episode of  _ Parks and Rec _ . I miss me some Leslie Knope.”

 

What will it take, she thought, for her to just go ahead and jump his bones? He was possibly everything she wanted in a man: Kind, handsome, watches  _ Parks and Rec… _ She might have leapt the distance of the couch to kiss him and do God-knew-what if Cheryl’s call of, “Betty, honey, can you come up here? I think I may have a case of contact dermatitis!”

 

Betty threw back her head and moaned miserably. 

 

_ Oh, Cheryl.  _

 

“Better get up there,” Jughead said, smirking. 

 

Betty rose from the couch and headed for the stairs. “Right. I’ll see you tomorrow, Juggie.”

 

“G’night, Betts.”

 

Maybe tomorrow, she could find a minute to jump his bones.  

  
  


**********

 

Jughead plopped on his bed, cleaned and dressed in his pajamas. It had been a long and fulfilling day, topped off with some quiet time with Betty in the living room and a good episode of  _ Parks and Rec _ .  

 

If he was going to be completely honest with himself, he wanted nothing more than to knock on Betty’s bedroom door and sweep her into his arms, but he seriously did not want to fuck this up.  

 

According to Kaela, he needed to take Betty out to dinner first. 

 

That, he could do. 

 

His phone rang, and he was suddenly reminded of the fact that it was around the time he needed to call either Archie or Veronica and update them of his very calm life at the farm. He expected it to be one of them, but he was mildly surprised to see that it was his father. 

 

His dad never called. 

 

Sure, they talked, but only because Jughead called  _ him.  _ Jughead had realized that Forsythe Pendleton II never called because he didn’t think he had a right to disturb his son. Maybe to a certain point, Jughead had agreed with him, but the last couple of years should have queued FP to the fact that his son didn’t mind anymore if he called. Jughead had, after all, helped his father get a house and cover the cost of closing it. 

 

So when Jughead picked up, he was a little worried. “Dad? Everything alright?”

 

FP was quiet for a heartbeat over the line, then he sniffed. “Not so much, son. I wouldn’t call you if I don’t need help, but I do. I need help.”

 

Jughead sat up, his stomach bottoming out. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Are you--” he closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath. “Are you drinking?”

 

“I’m not drinking,” said FP, much to Jughead’s relief. “But it’s a bad night, kid. It’s a bad night and I’ve had them before and managed, but I had my sponsor. My sponsor’s out of the country right now, and the guy he left me with isn’t picking up. I’ve been trying, but he isn’t picking up.  I can’t--”

 

“Dad,” Jughead said, calming his own voice. “Do you need me to go to you?”

 

FP was silent for a few seconds. “I wouldn’t ask if--”

 

“I’ll be there in an hour. Just hold on, okay? Think you can handle that?”

 

“Maybe,” he said, sighing. “I’ll try, kid.  Just--just hurry.”

 

“Listen, between now and then, call me. We’ll talk. We’ll get through this, okay?”

 

“Okay. Okay, kid.”

 

“Okay. Talk to you in a bit.”  

 

Jughead turned off his phone and sighed, running his hands through his hair. His father had come a long way. He’d done so much better, and even if by all accounts, FP didn’t deserve his son’s help, Jughead was going to give it.  

 

He checked his Uber app and there wasn’t a service available within 20 miles. He didn’t have time to wait for a car to arrive. He had to go now. 

 

Steeling himself, he went across the hall to Betty’s room.  Then he knocked. 

 

*********

 

When Betty opened the door, her eyes looked drowsy from sleep. She was in a cami and pajamas with little stars on it, and her hair was pillow tossed, beautiful even in her disturbed rest, but she smiled and Jughead wished he was there under better circumstances. 

 

Perhaps seeing the look on his face, her smile faded to a concerned frown. “Is everything alright, Juggie?”

 

He swallowed, a wave of embarrassment overcoming him, but he told himself that this was for his father. For all of FP’s faults, he had always tried to be there for his son.  “I hate to do this, Betts, but I--I need transportation. I need to get to my dad.”

 

She began to look alarmed. “God, is he okay? Has something happened to him?”

 

He shook his head, holding his hands up. “He’s okay for now, but--he needs my help. I have to get to him or he might--” He tried to find the words. “He might fall off the wagon. He’s been sober the last five and a half years and--”

 

“Give me five minutes,” Betty said quickly. “I’ll be right down.”

 

He blinked at her unexpected response. “Y-You don’t need to drive me. He’s about an hour away and I don’t--I can drive--”

 

“Where does he live?”

 

“Tarrytown, New York.”

 

“I can get you there in forty minutes. I know shortcuts. And I’m not going to let you drive out alone in the dark in your state.”

 

“I can’t have you driving there, drop me off, then drive back alone.”

 

“I won’t. I’m not going to leave you there.”

 

“I may have to stay overnight.”

 

“Then that’s what I’ll have to do as well.”

 

“Betty--”

 

“Juggie--”

 

“I can’t put this on you, Betts!”

 

It was only then he realized the frantic tone in his voice. The panic rising in his chest. He wanted so hard for his father to be okay. He dreaded the day his father would get lost in his alcohol again. He didn’t want his father to slide back. He wanted his dad to keep moving forward. 

 

He sighed with a shaky breath, whispering apologies, but she reached out and held him by the shoulders. 

 

“Juggie,” she said softly. “Let me help you, so that you can help your father.”

 

Pursing his lips, he nodded, not trusting himself to speak.  

 

She gave him a small smile. “It’s going to be okay.” She rubbed his shoulders firmly, and he felt some of his worry melting away.  “Five minutes.”

 

“Ten is fine. I don’t want to hurry you too much.” 

 

She gave him a tight lipped smile and nodded. “I’ll meet you outside at the truck. Tell your dad we’re on our way.”

 

She closed her door and got ready. He turned and realized he needed to get dressed himself.  He pulled on a pair of jeans, a shirt, and a coat. He hurriedly got on a pair of socks and his boots, then jamming his beanie on his head, he made his way down the stairs, out of the house, and straight to her truck outside. 

 

Not long after, Betty emerged from the doors, wearing jeans, a wide-necked shirt, and a cable-knit cardigan. She had tied her hair up in a bun and slung over her shoulder was a large bag. 

 

Before he could ask her what the bag was, she had placed the bag on the truck bed and told him to get in the truck.  

 

They were out of the farm in minutes and Betty was turning down the road towards the highway.  

 

“My favorite Miller lives in Tarrytown. I get all my flour and grains from him,” she explained. “He grinds everything with an ancient looking contraption that he made, but it produces the best flours any dessert chef could dream of.”

 

Jughead appreciated her efforts to calm him and he smiled tightly.  

 

She smiled back and then left him to his thoughts. Silences with Betty were always comfortable, but after twenty minutes of total silence, he itched to hear her voice again. It always had a calming effect on him.  

 

“Dad’s sponsor is out of town,” he explained softly. “And the guy who was supposed to stand in for him isn’t picking up. Dad’s always been cagey about asking me for anything. When he does, it’s something like a testimonial for his parole officer, and once when he needed me to take a look at his resume for a job--he didn’t get the job, but he told me he uses the same resume over and over again and it was the thing that got him the job he has now working as a supervisor in construction. This is the one big thing he’s asked of me, and if my bike weren’t out of commission, this wouldn’t even  _ be _ such a big thing--”

 

“Juggie,” she interrupted gently. “I  _ never  _ would’ve let you go on your bike this time of night. It isn’t safe. This isn’t the city. Besides, friends don’t let friends go out alone when they’re upset.”

 

He supposed he should be glad she was doing this out of friendship and not guest relations. 

 

His phone rang and it was his father. 

 

“Dad? You okay?” he asked the moment he picked up. 

 

“Kid, I need you to talk to me. I need to hear your voice. I’m--I’m really struggling here.”

 

Jughead closed his eyes and leaned his head back on his seat.  “What do you feel like talking about, dad?”

 

“Anything. I don’t know. Just tell me something, anything that I might have done right, you know? Before I became this complete fuck up.”

 

He sighed. “Dad…”

 

Sometimes it pained Jughead to hear him say these things, because it meant FP couldn’t summon the memory of his kids and family to hold on to, but all that white noise was just echos of resentment past.  Jughead had to remind himself that FP had been fighting his demons for so long that some things just didn’t come easy for him and that if he had been FP’s sponsor, none of this judgement would’ve been in the equation at all. 

 

“Do you remember that time when I was nine and you took me and Jellybean to the food festival in Edison?” 

 

FP was silent for a heartbeat. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I do.”

 

“Mom didn’t go with us that day. She was upset about something so she stayed home.”

 

FP chuckled. “Don’t ask me what she was upset about. All of it’s jumbled in my head. Everything about me upsets your mother.”

 

Jughead grinned in spite of himself. “I was kind of glad that it was just you. If mom wasn’t there, it meant there was little to no chance that Jelly and I would have to watch you two fight. So it was nice, just the three of us, enjoying the food fair.”

 

“Yeah, I really enjoyed that day.”

 

“We didn’t get everything we asked for, but you were strategic. You got us the high-carb, dense stuff. All the foods that gave us the most bang for your buck. Fries, huge burgers, carb-heavy corn dogs--basically foods that were cheap but would sit in our bellies like a ton of bricks. Jelly and I were so stuffed that day that we didn’t even ask for dinner.”

 

“That Jones appetite, kid. Your stomachs could eat through an entire week’s paycheck!”

 

Jughead chuckled. “But that wasn’t even the best part, dad. At the end of the day, you brought me and Jelly to some gift shop. It sold really cheap things, but you told us you were going to guess what we would like and if you guessed wrong, you would have to buy us two things each.”

 

“Yeah! And I got you both good!”

 

Jughead nodded. “Yeah. You got Jelly that stuffed pony, which she loved, and you got me a notebook.”

 

“I may have been a shitty father but I know what you kids like.”

 

“You do.  That notebook was the best thing I’ve ever gotten. I looked at those blank pages and all I can think of were words to fill them. It was the day I realized that writing was something I really wanted to do, because it was the day I realized that all the words I had in my head could be put on a blank page. I am what I am right now because you gave me that notebook that day.”

 

FP sighed and Jughead could hear him sniffing through the line.  After a few seconds, FP chuckled. “Thanks, kid. I needed that.”

 

“Anytime, dad.”

 

“I think I’m good for now. You getting here soon?”

 

“Another twenty minutes.”

 

“I think I’ll be fine. I can’t wait to see you, son.”

 

“Me too.”

 

FP clicked off the phone and Jughead sighed, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. 

 

He heard the sound of sniffing, and when he looked up, he realized that Betty was crying.  “Betts, are you okay?”

 

She gave an embarrassed laugh, wiping her eyes with her fingers.  “I’m good. It’s just--that was beautiful.” She reached over and held his hand. “You have such a big heart, Juggie.”

 

“You say that as if yours isn’t the size of the moon.”

 

He could feel her thumb rubbing the back of his hand. 

 

“I guess it takes one to know one,” she quipped, smiling at him.  

 

They reached Tarrytown quickly enough, and as Betty drove through the silent streets of the town, Jughead focused on directing her to the right house. 

 

Unlike before, where FP lived in a trailer park, Jughead had gotten him a one-bedroom home just off the main road. It had two floors and a tall angled roof. Quaint and easy to maintain, FP kept it clean inside and out, which Jughead was always glad to see.  

 

They were barely up the porch steps when the door opened and FP met them. 

 

Jughead felt his father’s strong arms surround him.  His father was just the slightest bit smaller than he was in height, and FP’s shoulders were broader, scruff thicker. That was where their differences ended. In everything else, they looked alike--eyes, hair, the shape of their face.  If not for FP’s extra facial hair, Jughead was a dead ringer for his father. 

 

If Jughead hadn’t turned away from the gang, their fates would have been the same as well. 

 

“Dad,” Jughead said against his shoulder.  “You alright?”

 

FP pulled back and held him by the face. “I am now. Come inside. And… uh, aren’t you going to introduce your friend?”

 

Jughead nodded and stretched his arm out to Betty, who stepped into his circle. “This is Betty Cooper. I’ve been staying at her B&B the last couple of weeks and she was kind enough to drive me here. My bike’s out and I couldn’t get to you otherwise.”

 

“It’s nice to meet you, Betty. My friends call me FP.” He put out his hand.

 

She took it and shook it properly. “How do you do, FP?  I’m glad to meet you.”

 

“Thank you for driving my boy here. Very kind of you.”

 

She shook her head and smiled. “Anything for Jughead. I know you two need to talk, so I can wait out here if you like--”

 

“Don’t be silly,” FP said. “Please come on in. Jughead and I will be fine having you in the living room.  Let me get that for you.”

 

Jughead noticed the bag she had again, and he wondered about it. What was in it that she had to lug it all the way here? It didn’t look particularly light. Did she bring an overnight bag?

 

FP set the bag aside and offered her the couch.  “Would you like something to drink, Betty? I’m afraid I only have soda, though.”

 

“I’m good, FP. You and Jughead should talk,” she said, gently.

 

FP looked gratefully at her for a heartbeat before turning to Jughead.  “Wanna talk upstairs for a bit, kid?”

 

Jughead nodded. “Yeah, dad. Of course. You go ahead and I’ll be right with you.”

 

FP headed for the stairs, and when he heard the bedroom door upstairs close, he looked worriedly at Betty. 

 

He fell beside her on the couch and without thinking, took her hands in his. “Are you going to be okay?”

 

She tilted her gaze at him, giving him a mildly chastising look. “Don’t worry about me. Go be with your dad. I’m fine right here, and I’ve got a book. I’ll wait all night and all day if I have to. Go on, now.”

 

He searched her gaze and saw that there was nothing but concern there. She gave him an encouraging nudge in the direction of the stairs. 

 

“Go,” she said, gently. 

 

He leaned over and pressed a kiss on her cheek. “Thank you.”

 

She smiled at him and touched his cheek with her fingers. “You’re welcome.”

 

Tearing himself away from her, he made for the stairs and went to his father. 

  
  
  


Once Betty oriented herself in FP’s kitchen and she’d put away her things in his refrigerator, Betty sat on the couch and read the last few chapters of  _ Epistrophe  _ as she waited. The story was mesmerizing enough and the character so engrossing that she barely noticed the time. She understood halfway through why this book was a New York Times bestseller, but by the time she was done, she was enthralled by Jughead’s gift for words and narrative. 

 

This was an amazing book. And he was an amazing writer.  She wished she had brought the second book so that she could start on it immediately. 

 

She stood from the couch, finding the shelf of books underneath FP’s staircase. She loved it when people made full use of their spaces. Shelves under the stairs was one of her design fantasies. She wanted to do it for her own stairs but she kept putting the project off. She was delighted by the one FP had. 

 

She looked at the books and sure enough, at eye level, were several copies of Jughead’s novels. They were in different editions and formats, different languages and covers. It was FP’s collection of his son’s accomplishments. It made her heart warm for father and son. 

 

She was looking over the French edition, which had a fascinating cover, when she heard the bedroom door upstairs open.  She peered over the overhang and through the balustrades. 

 

She saw Jughead coming down the stairs. He looked tired, but he didn’t seem to be in any distress.  

 

She smiled and met him at the foot of the stairs. “Hey, you. Everything good?”

 

Jughead nodded, smiling back at her and running a hand through his hair. It was a mess on his head, but that somehow always just added to his charm and devastating good looks. “Yeah, it’s all good. Listen, I have to stay with my dad overnight, just until he could get ahold of a new sponsor. You’re welcome to stay here, but you don’t have to. It’s late, so I’d feel a lot better if you stay here and not drive by yourself, but--”

 

“How are you going to get back home?” she asked, forgetting completely that Riverdale Farms was  _ not  _ his home, really.

 

He didn’t seem to mind, however. “I’ll take an Uber tomorrow. I could wait for it this time.”

 

She frowned. “It will cost you a ton.”

 

He rubbed her shoulder, smiling appreciatively. “It’s okay. I can handle it. I don’t want to inconvenience you any more.”

 

“It’s totally not an inconvenience, Juggie,” she insisted. “And I don’t mind staying here, at all. I can bunk on the couch.” Then she remembered that  _ he  _ needed a place to sleep. “Or the floor. I don’t care.”

 

He laughed softly. “I will never let you sleep on the floor, Betts. Neither will dad. He will beat me, first, before he lets that happen. You can stay on the couch. It’s a sofa bed, so it’ll be relatively comfortable.”

 

“Where are  _ you  _ staying?” 

 

“Dad said he has a futon lying around--”

 

She gave him a lopsided look. “So  _ you’re  _ staying on the floor.”

 

“I’m used to it. Homeless, remember?”

 

“Jughead,” she said in a firm, unwavering tone.  “I don’t care if you grew up sleeping in trains. You are not sleeping on the floor while I sleep on the couch. We’ll fit on the sofabed. You hear?”

 

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his eyes roving to the referred-to couch. Then he looked back at her hesitantly. “You sure?”

 

She nodded, broadly. “Absolutely. We’re both adults and I think we can sleep on a couch without being embarrassed about it.”

 

“Oh, I’m not embarrassed.” His eyes did not waver from hers, and she felt her cheeks warming at the intensity of his gaze. 

 

“Good,” she replied, softy. “Now, do you and FP need a break? Are you hungry?  I can whip something up if you are.”

 

Jughead looked up at his father’s bedroom door. “He may be. He might have mentioned McDonald’s, mostly because it’s the only joint in town open 24 hours.”

 

She tutted. “I can do better than that. Tell him to come down. We can have a hot meal.”

 

“Um, I doubt there’s anything in my father’s refrigerator.”

 

“There wasn’t,” she replied smartly. “But there is, now. Ten minutes and I’ll have something for you.”

 

“Betty--”

 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

 

He put his hands up. “Fine. I’ll tell him.”

 

She nodded and headed for the kitchen.  “Ten minutes!” She heard Jughead’s footsteps climbing the stairs and she set to work immediately, opening the refrigerator to choose what she should make for the Joneses this evening. 

 

She had brought some homemade beef stroganoff, dry ingredients separated from the wet. She started the steps to heat everything, from the stroganoff, to the pasta.  She took some of her fresh bread and sliced a few pieces to go with the dish.

 

The dish was hearty and it would be filling, so she needed a dessert to contrast the savory with the sweet.

 

She started to preheat the oven, just so she could stick her pie in there for heating.  She would have loved to top that pie with ice cream, but she wasn’t sure if the ice cream would make the trip. She had enough faith in her apple pie, anyway, to have it stand alone. 

 

Just as the food was ready, Jughead and FP came down.  

 

“I didn’t think there was anything in my kitchen that could smell that good,” FP said as he walked in.  

 

Betty was just laying out the plates for them. Jughead jumped in to help.  

 

“I come prepared, FP,” she said, cheerfully. “I hope you like it. It’s beef stroganoff. Homemade, of course, and I’ve got Apple Pie for dessert.”

 

FP looked more than a little surprised, arching an eyebrow at Jughead. “Where’d she get  _ that?  _ I swear there was nothing in my fridge.”

 

“Betty knows magic,” Jughead said, straightfaced. “She graduated from Hogwarts a few years ago.”

 

“What?” FP reacted, confused.

 

She shot Jughead a gently scolding look and Jughead smirked.

 

“Stop teasing your father, Juggie. FP, this is just what I do. I feed people. It’s kind of like a neurosis. It’s the easiest way to make people happy.”

 

FP took a seat at the table. “Well, it’s working. Son, get a move on, will ya?”

 

“I’m moving as fast as I could, dad. Take it easy.”

 

Betty watched them banter, smiling at the easy cadence of their gentle ribbing and private jokes. The tension in Jughead’s shoulders from earlier was gone, and his smile was constant, easy to come. The blues in his eyes, so often stormy on the calmest of days, now radiated with oceanic hues. At this moment, he was transformed. A doting father’s son.

 

She didn’t know FP, but she recognized a proud papa when she saw one. He talked about his collection under the stairs, about how he bragged to everyone he knew about J. Jones, bestselling author. He told everyone that one day, Jughead’s books would be turned into movies and his son would walk the red carpet.

 

“Dad,” Jughead had groaned, face red. “That happens in one in ten thousand books.”

 

“Who cares? It’s good enough to be a movie. My friends and I have worked this out. Your detective’s gonna be that guy in the big robots movie. The one where they fight giant monsters, what’s his name?”

 

“Idris Elba!” Betty cried, nodded. “Yes! Oh, yes! He’ll be perfect!”

 

Jughead cast her a tilted look. “Don’t encourage him.”

 

“It’s fun,” she said. “Then of course we’ll need a hot young star for the role of Justin.”

 

“Naturally,” FP said, shoving some stroganoff in his mouth. He made a sound of appreciation. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is amazing.”

 

She beamed. “I’m glad you like it. Have as much as you like. There’s plenty other food for breakfast tomorrow.”

 

FP cocked a smile. “You don’t need to convince me.”

 

“Juggie, have some. There’s plenty for everyone,” she told him, nudging his shoulder with her own. 

 

He was staring at her, his eyes half-lidded with his tilted smile, and she felt, strongly, adoration in that gaze. It made her feel giddy with accomplishment.  

 

“You’re fucking amazing, you know that?” he told her in a low voice.

 

She felt her face warming intensely.  

 

“Language, kid,” FP mumbled through mouths full of pasta.

 

Jughead did not break his gaze from her. “Sorry, dad. For a second I forgot you were there.”

 

From the corner of her eye, she could see FP rolling his eyes, and Betty had to stifle a giggle, but she didn’t feel embarrassed, just so damn thrilled by the look in Jughead’s eyes. 

 

When Jughead did manage to tear his eyes from her, he had some of the food, which he loved. He always did appreciate her cooking. 

 

The apple pie hit the spot, and the Joneses finished more than half of it. Whatever appetite Jughead had, he had come by it honestly.  Perhaps it was the whipped cream that FP did happen to have in his refrigerator. 

 

“I usually have  _ that  _ whipped cream for dessert,” FP confessed. 

 

Betty arched an eyebrow. “Just that?”   
  


FP shrugged. “I don’t cook.”

 

“You poor thing.”

 

“Maybe I should head on over to your farm when I’m feeling sorry for myself,” FP joked. 

 

Jughead’s scowl was serious when he said, “Dad.”

 

Betty chuckled. “You can come to the farm anytime, FP.  I always have an open seat at my table.”

 

FP looked at Jughead smugly, wagging a finger in Betty’s direction. “You hear that, son?  That was clearly an invitation.”

 

Jughead cast him a warning look and she couldn’t help but rub Jughead’s arm soothingly. 

 

“I’m not joking, FP,” she said. “Come for comfort and conversation. We’d be happy to have you. God knows, when it’s just me and my farmhands, it can get real quiet in the farm.” She tried not to let the sudden pang of loneliness overwhelm her.  Sooner or later, Jughead would be gone, and then it would be just her again. Kevin and Farmer John helped, but when the house was quiet and the only sound was her and the television, she shunned anything alcoholic, as it was a one way ticket to Depressionville.

 

FP nodded. “I appreciate that, Betty. I’ll take you up on that from time to time, but not so much as to embarrass my kid. I try not to be a mooch.” He winked. 

 

She grinned. “Please. It’s as much for me as it is for you.”

 

Jughead’s gaze darted in her direction, sharp and intense, then it gentled, the warmth spreading from his gaze into her limbs. He held the hand that she had put on his arm and she did not pull away. 

 

After dinner, FP said he was ready to knock off. He went to his son and gave him a firm embrace, thanking Jughead for being there when he needed him. 

 

“You’ll make sure Betty’s comfortable?”  FP asked.  

 

Jughead nodded. “We’ve got it worked out.”

 

“You want to stay in my room on the futon?  Give Betty some privacy in the living room?”

 

Betty pursed her lips, waiting to find out what Jughead had to say about it. 

 

It was fascinating to see Jughead’s face going red in the midst of his father’s awkward inquiries. “We’re good, dad.”

 

FP’s eyebrow arched slowly before he nodded, his face completely neutral. “Okay.  You kids have fun.”

 

“Jesus, dad,” Jughead said with an exasperated sigh. “We’re just sleeping. And we’re not kids. I’m almost thirty years old.”

 

FP put up his hands. “I didn’t mean anything by it!  Goodnight, Betty. If Jughead does anything untoward, just holler, alright?”

 

“Christ!”

 

Betty giggled. “He’s always the perfect gentleman, FP.”

 

“Oh, yeah? I hope not  _ too  _ perfect.”

 

“I’m done,” Jughead said, walking out of the kitchen.  

 

FP laughed, following his son. “I’m just teasing!  Okay, I’m finished. I’m going to bed.”

  
  
  


When FP was gone, Betty followed into the living room where she saw Jughead unfolding the sofabed.  

 

“I’ll grab some clean sheets for this and I know that dad’s got a couple of extra pillows in the linen closet. Do you, um, need stuff? Sleep shirt? Toothbrush? I know we left your house in a hurry…”

 

She smiled, amused by his sudden nervousness. “I’ve got a toothbrush. And I did pack sleep shorts. I’ll wear this shirt. I’m not as high maintenance as I look.”

 

He chuckled uneasily. “I didn’t think you were. Bathroom’s over there. I’m going to get the sheets and then change into some of dad’s clothes.”

 

“Okay.”

 

He hurried off, probably just needing his awkwardness to end. She thought it terribly cute. He was so self assured in almost everything, but she supposed having his father in the next room made him seem younger.    

 

She went to the bathroom, changed into her shorts, and brushed her teeth. She shook out her hair after pulling it off its bun and looked at herself, perhaps allowing herself a wicked smile.

 

She took out her phone and texted a message to Kevin and Cheryl, telling them a little of what happened. The farm will continue without her the next morning.

 

By the time she got out, Jughead was in pajamas and a shirt that said, “Rock the Dad Bod.”

 

Betty tried her very best not to laugh.  

  
  
  


He could tell she was trying not to laugh. Her eyes were bright with merriment and she was biting her lip. It was distracting enough that he was torn between acknowledging how ridiculous his t-shirt was and telling her how breathlessly beautiful she was in her shorts and cami with her hair down. Her mirth won. “Okay, so I gave my dad this shirt.”

 

She finally giggled. “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

 

“ _ Godfather _ , right?”

 

She shook her head. “ _ Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan _ . Don Corleone's words were ‘Revenge is a dish that tastes best when it is cold.’”

 

_ God, I need this woman in my life. _

 

“Well, this bod is tired,” he said, finishing with the sheet. 

 

She took the pillows and plopped one on each side of the sofabed while he picked up a comforter and handed it to her. 

 

She spread it over the sofa bed and he realized she was willing to share the blanket with him. He hesitated for only a moment, watching her go under the sheets and tucking herself in. Willing his nerves to settle, he went on his side and pulled the blanket over him. 

 

The sofabed was not as big as he thought, and he was totally aware of the fact that she was only inches away. He could even feel some of her body heat, and it was tempting to just roll over and fold her into his arms, not just because he wanted her to be closer, but because she had been a wonderful friend to him.

 

He turned on his side and marveled at how perfect she looked lying in bed. Beside him. “I meant what I said, earlier. You’re fucking amazing.”

 

She gave him a shy smile. “I just care about people.”

 

“Yeah. You do.”  He desperately wanted to kiss her, but his father was upstairs and he was reminded of his dad’s words just minutes ago, when he had said, “I hate to be a killjoy, kid, but I’d like to be able to walk out of my bedroom without having to worry about seeing things, ya hear?”

 

It was admittedly a boner killer, the mere thought that his father could walk out on them doing unmentionable things.

 

Not that he thought Betty would let him. Even with her staring at him right now, looking like his kiss would be welcome.

 

“Goodnight, Juggie,” she whispered.

 

“Goodnight, Betts.”

 

She closed her eyes. He didn’t. Not for a while.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was fun.


	6. The Mighty Omelette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty was back in her clothes from last night when he descended the stairs, the bun on her head making her neck look swan-like. She was already folding the blankets of their bed, so he tidied up with the sheets and pillows. With the sofa folded back in and the linens neatly stacked, he put away the sheets and then helped Betty in the kitchen.
> 
> “You’ve made a morning person of me,” he said, drinking coffee.
> 
> “One of my greatest accomplishments.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this next chapter, kids.

_Excerpt from_ **_Harvest to Home, The Mighty Omelette_ **

 

_“What is more versatile than an omelette? It is the one perfect dish that you can make in a pinch, whether you’re low on ingredients or have an overabundance of it, the omelette can both satisfy or lean light.  All you need are eggs, salt, and a couple of ingredients that you can throw in it. You can have it with cheese or without. You can make it as rich or as healthy as you prefer._

 

_The trick, however, is in keeping it fluffy. You may be tempted to pat an omelette down, but really, just like any other food, you have to let it come to its own at some point...”_

 

_\--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast _

 

The warmth was heavenly, easing the knots on her body that she so often woke with.

 

Sleep, for her, had seldom given her that boneless rest. Sleep was so often a reminder of how alone she was, first after Trev’s death and then later just--

 

_By itself._

 

The largeness of the bed, the heat that was so exclusively hers and no one else’s, all served as a reminder that the void remained, even when she reached out and offered herself up to the world.

 

But now. _Now._

 

Between waking and sleeping, she felt cocooned in strong arms, a firm back, and limbs tangled in limbs. She moaned contentedly, nestling herself deeper into this unexpected embrace. The arms around her tightened and her ass was even more flush against his hips.

 

It was in her waking consciousness that she began to realize what this warmth meant. Jughead was wrapped around her, enveloping her in his arms. She also realized that she was in no hurry to get out of it.

 

She sank lazily into the pillows and blankets, with every intention of enjoying this for as long as she could get away with it.

 

“Betts,” he moaned softly.

 

She tensed ever so slightly. _Was he awake?_

 

He shifted then settled, his breath slipping to an even cadence.  

 

She became aware of her heart beat, which was currently racing. She was now fully awake, and she supposed that _now_ she was taking advantage, because she was in full control of her faculties.

 

Carefully, she tried to slide out of his arms, shimmying her hips away and turning to push herself off the bed, but he got jostled, and now he was shifting again, pulling her to him. If she ever doubted his strength, the next few seconds dispelled it. She felt herself getting dragged back in, and she found that she was right back where she started.

 

She sighed. Why was she trying to get away, anyway? She liked where she was and Jughead was not making it easy for her.

 

She checked her phone. It was five thirty in the morning, but she did not need to get up.  She was not running a farm today. In fact, she saw Kevin’s no nonsense response of “Ok. Text me when you’re headed back.” He wasn’t demanding where she was. He wasn’t going into a panic or sending out a search party. Kevin was fine. Which meant Farmer John would be fine. Cheryl would probably give zero fucks.  

 

She was comfortable and happy and she wanted nothing more than for this to be real.

 

And by real, she meant They’d Just Had Sex real.  Real, like _They Were Having a Lie In_ real.  Real like if she turned over in his arms, she could wrap her legs around him, kiss him awake, and have him inside her in a heartbeat, real.

 

He stirred, and for a moment she thought he was just shifting, but as she lay there, unmoving, she felt _something_ poking her backside.

 

Her eyebrow arched. _Is that Jughead’s--_

 

“Well, this is awkward,” he suddenly muttered into her hair.

 

She gasped softly in surprise. “Juggie! How long have you been awake?”

 

“Few minutes.”

 

“U-um, good morning?”

 

He groaned, peeling himself away from her and throwing an arm over his forehead. His eyes were still half-lidded from sleep, but he was smirking. “Yeah.  Let’s go with that.”

 

She turned over on the bed, only then realizing that one of Jughead’s arms was pinned beneath her. “Sorry.” She lifted up her hip and he slipped it out from under her.

 

“It’s fine,” he grumbled. “If you can forget about my morning hardon poking your back, I can forget about you putting my arm to sleep.”

 

She thought about it for a second. “Not equivalent.”

 

He sighed. “I guess not.” He covered his face with his hands. “It was all very comfortable until--”

 

“Until Forsythe Pendleton IV decided to make an appearance?”

 

He groaned, casting her a glare.  “Did dad tell you? About my name?”

 

“In a manner of speaking.”  She jerked her thumb at his father’s display case.  She had seen his dad’s high school diploma and it said Forsythe Pendleton Jones II, and while she hadn’t Googled Jughead very deeply, the spackled mention of FP Jones III in relation to Jughead’s search results made it easy for her to put two and two together.

 

“Nothing escapes you.”

 

She shrugged. “That much is true, Forsythe.”

 

“Can we pretend you never found that out?”

 

She giggled softly and curled up on her side, staring at his profile. She didn’t want to get up just yet. She liked this illusion of waking up with Jughead beside her.

 

She shifted and her foot grazed against his leg. She wasn’t sorry for it, but she said it anyway. “Sorry.”

 

He looked at her. “Don’t be.”

 

She wanted to kiss him, but aside from the feeling of stale breath, she didn’t think she could stop at a kiss, and FP was one walkout away from seeing everything.

 

Sighing in frustration, she threw back her covers and pushed herself out of bed.

*************

 

Jughead did not think he could take much more of this dancing around.

 

He watched her, forlornly, walk away to go the bathroom. Once she was out of earshot, he grumbled about what a huge idiot he was.

 

He got up, went to his father’s room, freshened up, and dressed back in his clothes while FP snored fitfully in the background.

 

Betty was back in her clothes from last night when he descended the stairs, the bun on her head making her neck look swan-like. She was already folding the blankets of their bed, so he tidied up with the sheets and pillows. With the sofa folded back in and the linens neatly stacked, he put away the sheets and then helped Betty in the kitchen.

 

“You’ve made a morning person of me,” he said, drinking coffee.

 

“One of my greatest accomplishments.”

 

He took a sip of the coffee. It was the instant stuff, as it was all FP had in his cupboards, but it served. Caffeine was caffeine. “Does the farm know you’re not there? Because Kevin and Cheryl will blame me and kill me.”

 

She chuckled. “They know, but they will not kill you. I’ve had to take emergency leave before. Once when Polly gave birth to the twins and another time when Chic got shot on duty. And then of course when Trev died, but the farm runs well even if a few parts of it are missing for a few days. It’ll be fine.”

 

Jughead looked upward to the second floor. “My emergency’s less urgent than any of that.”

 

She shook her head. “That’s not true. Your father’s continued sobriety is just as important as Polly giving birth, or Chic going into surgery. It’s a big deal, Jug. And I know it means so much to you. It should. Your father’s alcoholism is a lifelong struggle that no one should have to bear alone. You were right to come rushing over here. And I’m glad I was able to help you with that.”

 

She looked so adamant. And she meant every word of it, too. He could see it and he felt shaken by the intensity of it.

 

Suddenly he was recalling every single thing about her the last few hours that made him want to pull her closer, and it was a beautiful mixture of things that bombarded all of his senses—the sight of her eyes, alight with mirth, the feel of her body against his, the lavender smell of her skin and hair, the sound of her voice, and the thought of her, what she inspired in his mind and the beating heart in his chest—it was all culminating in the desperate, all consuming need to _taste._

 

That realization, that need was about as much as he could take.

 

“Betts…” he said, almost nonsensically. What did he want? Permission?

 

Her brows knotted slightly. “What is it, Juggie?”

 

He set his coffee down, crossed the kitchen in two big strides, and wrapped his arms around her, his lips pressed to her head. He closed his eyes and breathed her in.

 

“Juggie,” she whispered, holding still.

 

On any other day, holding her would have been all he needed, but right now, it _did not_ feel like enough. He needed more, and pulling away slightly, he tilted her chin up and pressed a kiss on her lips, gentle and unhurried. He held the kiss for another few heartbeats, then slowly, he pulled away.

 

He breathed and he opened his eyes to look at her face. Her eyes were still closed and suddenly, he didn’t want to hesitate anymore.

 

He kissed her again, more firmly this time, and when her lips lips parted, he stroked his tongue against hers. She responded and it was all he needed to keep going.

 

He caught her face in his hands and the temperature of the kiss heightened, climbing to near desperate.

 

Her fingers were in his hair and he pushed her chin up with his thumb so he can deepen the kiss even more. She moaned into his mouth and that sound broke the control he had. He breathed her in, their kiss intensifying.

 

He didn’t even realize he was walking her back until her back bumped the kitchen counter. Without breaking the contact of their lips, he lifted her by her waist and thigh and set her on the counter, his lips traveling to her neck.

 

“Juggie,” she whispered, breathless, wrapping her legs around his hips.

 

There was a frustrating amount of jean between him and her, so all he could really do was squeeze her ass through her pants. He nursed her mouth with his, their tongues rubbing a gentle massage against each other.

 

When they finally separated, they caught their breaths, foreheads touching. Jughead stole shorter kisses, in no hurry to end their makeout session.

 

“You don’t know how long--” he murmured between kisses “--I’ve wanted to do that.”

 

She smiled as she kissed him back, her arms slipping over his shoulders. “What kept you?”

 

He wasn’t sure he was ready to get into that, particularly about what kept _her,_ but it was enough that she was so wonderfully responsive at this moment. “Stuff,” he said with a grin.

 

They came together again, and he moaned into the softness of her lips, the velvety stroke of her tongue, and just everything that was making this moment as wonderful and stimulating as he imagined it would be.

 

The sound of a door opening and closing loudly reverberated through the house. “Hey, kid? You awake?”

 

It was FP from the top of his stairs, loudly announcing himself.

 

Jughead pulled away, and they were both trying to catch their breaths as they exchanged knowing smiles. He gently helped her hop off the counter.  

 

“Yeah, dad. In the kitchen,” he called over his shoulder.

 

By the time FP reached them, Betty was cracking eggs into a bowl and Jughead was leaning back on the counter, ankles crossed as he sipped his coffee.

 

Jughead noted FP’s suspicious eyebrow arching in his direction.

 

“Good morning, FP!” Betty said cheerfully. “I guess Jughead got his Morning Person thing from you.”

 

Jughead tried not to choke on his coffee. Way to make his father even _more_ suspicious.

 

“You must’ve met a different person. You ain’t talking about _my_ kid.”

 

“Must’ve been the farm, then,” she quipped, chopping onions expertly.

 

“Need help with that?” Jughead asked.

 

“Peppers,” she said, sliding them in his direction.

 

He managed to find a second chopping board and a knife. He sliced and diced, though not nearly as well as she did.

 

By the time he was done, she had already ladled some eggs on a skillet and spread it perfectly on the pan’s round surface.

 

FP chattered animatedly about Jughead being the first Jones in several generations to finish college and how he did it all without his father’s help.

 

One thing about Jughead’s father, he never pretended he was there for either of his kids, particularly his eldest. Though Jughead could probably scrounge up the ways FP had been there for other things, like lying about being Jughead’s alibi for some drug charges that Jughead had been falsely accused of, or beating the shit out of some gangbangers who had tried to beat the shit out of Jughead first, but even FP recognized that these were situations that Jughead shouldn’t have been in if he had a father looking out for him in the first place.

 

Even Jughead was a bit loathe to admit it was things like that which made Jughead loyal to his dad. Nobody with a normal upbringing could understand that, but that had been his life. Maybe someday he could tell Betty about all of it. And oddly enough, he wasn’t afraid she’d take it badly.

 

She had listened to him talk about the bullet he wore around his neck without the slightest indication of judgement. He imagined she did the same for every kid that sought refuge with her. She listened and helped. Her home was a judgement free zone because she, the mistress, was.

 

She made three omelettes and served them with the bread she brought over, freshly warmed in FP’s oven. She had brought a bottle of preserves and a jar of butter to spread on her bread. And when they sat down to eat, it felt like brunch at a trendy restaurant.

 

That was the way with Betty. Every meal felt special, no matter how simple the dish was.

 

“So kid, if you’ve been eating this way the last few weeks, how are you not thicker in the middle?” FP asked.

 

Jughead grinned and winked. “The famous Jones metabolism.”

 

FP almost looked like he believed it.

 

“He works the farm, FP,” Betty said, throwing Jughead an amused look. “Pretty hard, too. I should pay him.”

 

“Research,” Jughead said. “For my third book. Also, I like it. The farm work.”

 

“That part’s the Jones in you, kid,” FP said. “We always liked getting our hands into the work. We like seeing something made.  I’ll be a blue collar worker all my life, kid, but it’s what I want to do, after all.”

 

Jughead smirked. “Would you disown me if I told you that I actually like artisanal mayonnaise?”

 

Betty stifled a laugh.

 

FP scoffed. “I forgive you. At least I know that when you wear flannel, it isn’t with irony. But if you start raving about deconstructed burgers, I may beat you.”

 

He had to laugh at that.

 

“So I’m guessing,” FP said, with a pointed gaze at Betty, “that you made this bread, jam, and butter yourself.”

 

She nodded, almost like she was guilty. “Eggs from my chickens and onions and peppers from my vegetable garden, too.”

 

FP nodded, impressed. “Get you a farmer and you’ll never go hungry. She’s perfect for you, Jug.”

 

Jughead almost choked on his coffee. Again. When did his father get into the matchmaking business?

 

“Something I said?”

 

Betty leaned her chin on her fist. “I’d like to know, too, FP.”

 

Jughead eyed her with an affectionate glower. “No. Nothing wrong with what you said, dad. I totally agree. I should get on that. Like, stat.”

 

It was in the midst of this, and him feeling Betty’s foot rubbing his leg under the table that FP got a phone call and he had to excuse himself to take it.

 

“So how are you going to get on that, Jones?” she asked with a quiet giggle.

 

He leaned over the table, rubbing her knee with his hand. “How about dinner tomorrow night? You free?”

 

She pretended to think about it.

 

He ran his hand up her thigh boldly as punishment. She bit her lip and scolded him in a whisper, her eyes dancing with suppressed merriment.

 

“Okay, I’m free,” she said. “I’ll just have to tell Kevin I’m skipping the gay bar this weekend.”

 

He laughed quietly just as FP returned.

 

“So good news,” FP said. “That was my stand in sponsor. He apologized for being absent last night, but he had an emergency and didn’t get his messages. He’ll come by this morning to get me through, so you can get on with your lives, but honestly, I think my crisis has passed, thanks to you both.”

 

“No problem, dad.”

 

“I’m glad,” Betty said. “We’ll stick around until he arrives. Unless you want us to go.”

 

“Are you kidding? I enjoy having my boy around. And you’re giving me every reason to like having you around, Betty.”

 

She looked extremely pleased by that, and Jughead had to fight off the weird feelings that his father’s words had invoked.  FP had always been an expressive guy, while Jughead’s tendency to over-contemplate and shut down had always been a trait he learned from his mother.  There were only two things FP didn’t talk about: The Serpents and his son’s involvement with the Serpents, everything else was pretty much fair game.  So when FP said he liked having his boy around, that wasn’t a surprise, but Jughead had to think about the last time FP said that sober.  

 

So much of the past had been filtered through FP’s alcoholic haze that Jughead was often caught off guard when FP was doing the same thing with his full faculties intact.  Jughead supposed he should’ve been less surprised, since alcohol could loosen the tongue of anyone, and some would argue alcohol brings out one’s true self, but while FP had often told Jughead “thanks for coming,” or “I’m glad you made it,” or “I was surprised you showed up,” to hear FP say, “I enjoy having my boy around,” so clearly _and_ to someone else was a little surreal.

 

Five years sober and FP was still catching up on moments like these with Jughead.

 

And then there’s the bit about FP liking Betty, which was unsurprising, but mildly unnerving. He and Betty weren’t even really a thing yet. A sprout, tops. Will his dad get on his case if by some stroke of bad luck, it didn’t work out with her?  Jughead never had to worry about showing FP his report cards growing up, but this felt a little like that: like he had to do well, or else he’d have to answer to his dad if he failed.

 

Jughead hadn’t had to answer to his father for anything in a little over 15 years. This all felt very strange.

 

He caught Betty’s eye and she seemed completely unbothered by any of this, which was possibly the kind of certainty one could only acquire for being the Teacher’s Pet for most of her life. He had no doubt Betty was _that_ student.

 

She smiled at him reassuringly, and he could only smile back in return.

 

**********

 

FP’s stand-in sponsor arrived just shortly after breakfast, so they were driving back to the farm by 7:30.

 

It was an interesting scene, watching Jughead and FP saying goodbye to one another. In the light of day, with everything working out well, father and son shook hands, patted each other’s shoulders like old buddies, and then separated.

 

For someone like her who took thirty minutes to say goodbye to her siblings, this was unnervingly efficient. She herself had given FP a warmer goodbye, giving him an unhurried hug, a reminder that her table at the farm was open for him, and that if he ever had a hankering for good cheese, she could drop off a basket of it. Her own goodbye had taken longer than Jughead’s.  

 

But then that was just the kind of person she was, and both Jughead and FP were an interesting study of relationships destroyed and rebuilt.

 

It felt a lot less hurried on the way back, which is why Betty took up Jughead’s offer to drive. He skipped over the shortcuts, using the longer, more direct routes by highway. Betty didn’t mind. It just meant more time spent with him without the looming presence of everyone and everything that surrounded them at the farm.

 

“Your dad was really sweet,” she said, making herself comfortable on the passenger seat.

 

A small smile lifted the corner of his lip. “He always was, drinking or not. He only got really ornery when he had to deal with the gang and since that’s all behind him… well, he’s come a long way.”

 

She nodded, understanding to some extent. Polly had had some problems of her own in the past. She hadn’t gotten horribly addicted, but she’d had some drug use in her history, mostly to deal with the demands of their parents. But Polly had been lucky. Their parents had money to throw at it, for one, and Polly’s support system had been stable.

 

It didn’t sound like FP had it quite so easy, and while that hadn’t been an excuse to subject Jughead to a shitty childhood, she respected FP’s and Jughead’s efforts to make it work. To make it better. God knows, Polly would probably be dead if they’d been as hard up as FP and Jughead were.

 

“It’s adorable how proud he is of you,” she remarked, smiling at the memory of how FP’s face lit up when talking about Jughead and his books. He could probably talk about his son like that the entire day.

 

Jughead shrugged. “I think dad would’ve been proud of me if I got tenth place at a little league baseball tournament. He doesn’t have strict standards.”

 

She laughed and touched his arm. “That only makes him better in my eyes.”

 

“This is the best of him, you know. He was a really crappy father before,” he said quietly. He wasn’t being disrespectful. Jughead was just the kind of guy who refused to be disingenuous.

 

She nodded, smiling kindly. “I got that. I guess you just have to give people a chance to make up for the things they did to you.”

 

He was quiet for a few seconds. “Speaking from experience?”

 

She shrugged. She felt that her experience with Polly didn’t much equate with Jughead’s experience with his father. “Just a little. It was nothing like your situation.”

 

He chuckled, sounding slightly sardonic. “Betts, after everything you’ve done for me, do you really think I’d be a dick and judge you?”

 

She shook her head. “Oh, it’s not that. I just don’t want to equate my petty--”

 

He shot her a look. “C’mon. I’m pretty sure it’s not petty.”

 

Sighing, Betty leaned back on her seat. “So my sister had a drug problem some years back.”

 

Jughead blinked, then his gaze on her softened. “So you know what this is like.”

 

She shook her head. “I didn’t rely on her for my well-being Juggie. She didn’t have to raise me or feed me, we had parents with money to bail us out of trouble, we had lawyers and she had rehab--”

 

“Hold on a second,” Jughead said, interrupting mildly. “You’re using ‘us’ and ‘we’ as if you _both_ got in trouble.”

 

“We did,” Betty replied.  “She was kind of a functioning user and I didn’t know a single thing about addiction. I didn’t know people who took drugs and went about their day normally like Polly did, and even if someone else told me Polly was sniffing blow in the bathroom, I don’t think I would’ve believed it, so a lot of it was probably me denying she was acting strangely. So that one night she drove both of us home from a party, she was apparently high and she ended up crashing our car into the side of the road. It wasn’t a horrible crash, thank God, and we only suffered some minor injuries, but she had drugs in the car, Juggie. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was plenty enough that I got hauled into jail right along with her. It was just a couple of days, but I remember being completely furious with her the whole time. We were yelling at each other so loudly at one point that the guards had to come in and separate us. I got dumped into a vacant cell all by myself, which was kind of a mistake, because now she was stuck with half a dozen strange women, and between _that_ cell and mine, there were the men. She was all alone over there with a bunch of strangers who were probably there for one bad thing or another. I was scared for her safety. Not to mention the fact that I basically had to endure drunken catcalls the entire time from a bunch of bored dudes.”

 

Jughead fell unnaturally silent.

 

She smirked. “It’s okay. You can laugh. I get that a perky blonde white girl like me in jail is the stuff of comedies.”

 

He did cock a grin. “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at all. Being in jail is no joke, Betts. That’s some serious fucked up shit. I’m just amused at the fact that even at your angriest, you still worried about her. I think you’re too good for this world, Betty Cooper.” He reached over and rubbed her thigh, giving her an affectionate smile.

 

She blushed at his words and his look.

 

“How long did it take you to forgive your sister?” he asked.

 

She sighed.  “I don’t know. A while? The lawyers managed to clear me of any charges and Polly got off with a misdemeanor and community service--just a couple of privileged kids who got away with stuff because _money_ , but I hated Polly for putting me in that position. I wanted to break out on my own, and I resented her for possibly taking that from me. It meant I had to rely on my parents for my career, which I absolutely did not want.” She gave him an embarrassed look. “I know: boohoo, my parents can get me a job. Poor me.”

 

He cocked a grin. “Don’t mock yourself. That’s a valid aspiration. And you did it. You broke out on your own without their help.”

 

She felt that glow of pride in her chest, whenever she was reminded that the success of her farm and business was her doing, with the help of Kevin and Farmer John of course. “I did, and I love doing what I’m doing. I am so lucky. And yes, obviously, I forgave Polly. She comes to the farm with her family every other year for the holidays. But whenever I need something from her and she resists, I remind her that I went to jail because of her.”

 

Jughead chuckled. “How long are you going to hold that over her head?”

 

“Probably when I need her help burying a body.”

 

He laughed, reaching over to take her hand. “I’ll help you bury a body.”

 

“Oh, no. You, I’ll plan the murder with. A crime novelist? C’mon. You’d be great at it.”

 

He grinned. “I ought to pick your brain for this next novel. You’re my muse, after all.”

 

His words gave her warm tingles. “I am?”

 

“Yeah. That surprises you?”

 

She shrugged, flushing. “A little bit. Should I be doing something to be the best kind of muse you have? Are there muse duties?”

 

He pretended to think about it. “Back rubs. That would be nice. And kisses. Lots of them. Maybe draw up a nice bath…”

 

She giggled, running her hand up his arm. “Wouldn’t that be exquisite?”

 

“Do those things daily and I’ll finish ten novels.” He winked.

 

Heat pooled at the bottom of her stomach and she felt a small thrill go through her. She wondered how they would spend the evening together, when Cheryl was asleep and the farm was free of anyone but them.

 

They arrived at the farm by 8:30 and Farmer John waved as they passed him. When Jughead parked the truck, Kevin and Cheryl met them at the front.

 

A muted gunshot sounded in the distance and Betty was reminded that Reggie was still there working the property.

 

“Everything alright with you, Jug?” Kevin asked as Jughead got out of the truck.

 

“Yeah, it’s all good, thanks to Betty.”

 

“I just drove you there. It was nothing.”

 

Cheryl put a hand to her hip, her lip curling as she arched an eyebrow. “We ate apple strudels and donuts for breakfast.”

 

Betty frowned. “Kevin, there was a proper breakfast in the fridge. You just had to--”

 

“We _all_ wanted the apple strudel and donuts, Cheryl,” Kevin said pointedly. “Don’t pretend you didn’t!”

 

Cheryl sighed. “True, but I usually have hired help to look out for my diet. How do you plebes get around self-policing yourselves? I’ve called my personal trainer and he’s coming over tomorrow morning.”

 

Trust Cheryl to have a personal trainer who got paid enough to drive 70 miles to cater to her whims.

 

“So long as it isn’t Jonah,” Betty muttered. “His calorie counting drives me up the wall.”

 

Kevin shot her a warning look, eyes wide. “If she hears you, it’s gonna be Jonah,” he said through grit teeth.

 

Jughead put an arm around her shoulder. “I’m a great antidote to calorie counters.”

 

“I bet,” she said, giggling.

 

“Oh, by the way,” Kevin said. “A package came for you, Betty.”

 

Betty wracked her brain for any orders she might have placed online, but when Kevin pointed in the direction of the porch and she saw a huge box sitting by the door, she realized what it was.

 

“Oh, your wheel’s here!” she said, tugging on Jughead’s hand and getting up on the porch. The box was wide and bulky, and there were probably a few other things inside that added to the weight. It was covered in messages hastily written with markers and taped up packaging slips. It may have gotten lost at some point, which explained why it took so long. “About time, too.”

 

“Wheel?” Cheryl asked.

 

“My bike got a flat on the way here,” Jughead explained.

 

Cheryl arched an eyebrow. “Like, you pedaled your way here?”

 

“I realize that at some angles I look like a hipster, but no, I didn’t pedal my way here.”

 

Betty was too busy folding over in laughter to say anything clever. The idea of Jughead pedaling on a speeder was too funny and adorable. “Cheryl, it’s a Harley. See, the logo’s stamped on this side of the box.”

 

“You drive a motorcycle?” Cheryl exclaimed in inexplicable disbelief.

 

Kevin frowned. “What are you so surprised for? Everything about Jughead suggests he drives a bike.”

 

Jughead scowled. “Not _everything.”_

 

Betty sized up the box and asked if someone can haul it into the garage for her. Jughead jumped, of course, and it was always a pleasure to watch him lifting heavy things.

 

Cheryl went into the house, already disinterested in the proceedings and Kevin begged off Betty’s invitation to help fix the bike. Betty led Jughead to the garage and once there, she was glad to be alone with him.

 

She wasn’t the only one looking forward to their privacy. As soon as Jughead set the box down, he took her by the hand and pulled her to him. He leaned back on his bike, sitting on it comfortably as he settled her between his legs.

 

She was in his arms in a second and she smiled lazily at him, sliding her arms over his shoulders.

 

“You know, I never realized how many people were in this farm until I wanted you all to myself,” he said, pushing some stray strands of hair that had fallen on her face.

 

She smiled somewhat shyly. “It did feel crowded out there.”

 

“I just wanted to pick up where we left off in dad’s kitchen,” he said, quietly.

 

“So pick up, already,” she whispered, affectionately.

 

He cupped her face in his hand and kissed her, sweeping his tongue into her mouth. She met his tongue with her own, melting into the embrace of his body.

 

She pulled off his beanie, releasing his luscious dark hair so she could run her fingers through it. His hair was beautiful. It was soft. And feeling it between her fingers felt intimate.

 

She felt one of his hands slide down and squeeze her ass and she knew he’s wanted to do that for a while now. She was happy to let him.

 

The kiss lingered and his hands roamed, slowly, exploring her curves. Her gentle moans indicating her approval.

 

She felt something twitch against her thigh and realized he was getting excited, and it sent shockwaves of heat through her body. This was not a morning hardon. This was her eliciting his desire and it made her feel heady.

 

Distantly, she heard a sound. Maybe it was a gunshot. Maybe it was someone banging about in the mudroom. She didn’t really care.

 

Jughead pulled away, his lips reluctantly leaving hers, while his gaze was dark with lust.

 

“What?” she whined, trying to get their contact back with an insistent open-mouthed kiss.

 

He moaned and accepted the kiss, but he pulled away again, looking over her shoulder as he did. “Cheryl.”

 

At first what he meant didn’t register. When it slowly began to dawn on her, she craned her neck to look and saw that Cheryl just stood by the mudroom door, leaning against it with her arms crossed over her chest.

 

Betty’s jaw dropped in shock. “Ch-Cheryl! How long--”

 

“Aw, you two are like chimps in captivity grooming and picking lice out of each other.”

 

“Are you being serious?” Betty cried, whipping around to face her. She had intended to pull away from Jughead, but he kept her there with a gentle rub of her back.

 

“Oh, settle down, hon,” Cheryl replied, descending the stairs to sit on one of the work benches. “Holden Caulfield over there doesn’t give a shit.”

 

“Of course I give a shit,” Jughead grumbled. “But by the time I noticed you, you’d seen everything, so there wasn’t a point to panicking.”

 

“I swear to God, Cher. Sometimes you can be creepy as hell,” Betty huffed, turning to Jughead. “I’m going to change into work clothes. You okay being alone with Cheryl?”

 

“Very funny,” Cheryl drawled.

 

Jughead chuckled, rubbing her shoulder. “I’ve got holy water in my back pocket. I’ll be fine.”

 

“You two think you’re so clever,” Cheryl sneered. “Just so you know, his _wooden stake’s_ not going to be much use around me.”

 

Betty should’ve known better than to go head to head with Cheryl. She rolled her eyes and gave Jughead one last peck before extricating herself from his arms and making her way up the mudroom.

*********

Watching Betty fix his bike was a major turn on. She knew exactly what tools she needed and which part went where. He wasn’t much help except for the lifting and the occasional handing something over, but that didn’t bother him. He was totally fine watching her work.

 

“Could you imagine if Betty put up a garage full of babe mechanics?” Cheryl mused while drinking wine. “Even all the way out in the city, men and women will come over from miles around. We can market it as a Hooters for auto services.”

 

“Hooters? You mean that classy joint that serves buffalo wings?” Betty quipped as she cranked a bolt wrench.

 

Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. We get sexualized in whatever we do, regardless of what we’re wearing, so we may as well get money off of it. So you show some cleavage and butt cheek. Cheap thrills! The tips alone will be amazing. It’s all about agency.”

 

“And a good, strong bouncer,” Jughead said, sarcastically.

 

“You see, Jughead agrees with me.”

 

“That was in no way an endorsement of your ideas.” Not that he didn’t agree with Cheryl’s thoughts on agency, but he did find a bunch of guys ogling servers in a restaurant, or in this hypothetical scenario, mechanics who just wanted to do their jobs, creepy.

 

“Whatever, like your approval matters, weirdo. Why do you always wear that beanie, anyway?”

 

“He doesn’t need to explain and I like Jughead’s beanie. And his approval counts plenty.” Betty gave him a sultry wink.

 

He grinned and beamed at Cheryl.

 

“Ugh, you guys are gross.”

 

“Says the woman who stood watching us make out for God knows how long,” Jughead shot back.

 

“It was only a few seconds,” Cheryl said nonchalantly. “Can I tell Reggie?”

 

“Cheryl,” Betty said in a warning tone. “Stay out of it.”

 

Cheryl scoffed. “It’s not as if you haven’t been turning him down for years. And he’ll probably tell himself Jughead’s just temporary.”

 

Jughead could’ve sworn Betty paused, then she went on working. He shot Cheryl a scowl. What the fuck did she know about how long he wanted this to last? Its barely been a day. There were still many things to figure out and he wanted them to take their time. They had _plenty_ of time.

 

“Thanks, Cheryl,” he said, sarcastically.

 

“I’m just assuming those will be his thoughts,” she replied casually. “Not a reflection of you. Can you kiss Betty in front of Reggie? I want to see his reaction.”

 

“We will not play parts in your sadistic screenplay, Cheryl,” he drawled.

 

She pouted. “Spoilsport. You all lack the killer instinct I have, that’s the problem.”

 

“I’m sure you’re right,” Betty said, tightening a bolt then getting up and patting the newly installed perfect wheel. “All done!”

 

“Looks great, Betts,” he said, giving her a grateful smile. “Thank you. How much for everything?”

 

“Just the wheel. I don’t charge for auto repair. It’s not what I do.”

 

“I’m a really good tipper,” he said, winking.

 

She blushed, but grinned. “Oh, yeah?”

 

“If you keep going this route, I’m gonna need a cigarette for this,” Cheryl said.

 

Betty rolled her eyes exasperatedly and tried to ignore her. “Juggie, want to help me put lunch together?”

 

“Sure thing,” he said, grinning. “See you later Cheryl.”

 

“Fine. Leave me here.”

 

“Bye!” Betty said, pulling Jughead into the house with her.

 

*************

 

The farm was always busy during the day, so she and Jughead did not have that many opportunities to be alone. He had been considerate enough (probably much to her frustration) to _actually_ help her prepare lunch. Except for the occasional grazing touches and flirty invasions of personal space, he didn’t actually get in the way of putting lunch together.

 

She supposed she should’ve been grateful for his consideration. There _were_ people to feed, more so now with Reggie and Cheryl there, but she would not have minded a few minutes of interruption from him, especially since she felt he wanted to.

 

When lunch was ready, she picked up her long-range two way radio and told everyone to come back to the house for lunch.  Three different responses returned, confirming they got the message.

 

When she turned to Jughead, he was smirking.

 

“You have that grin everytime I use the walkie talkie,” she said.

 

He shrugged. “It just hits me how practical and inelegant that thing is. A place like this--it’s almost like you should be ringing one of those lunch bells on the porch. Or at least sending out owls.”

 

She laughed. “Owls? Again with the Harry Potter reference.”

 

“Hey, _you_ called yourself a witch at some point.”

 

“True, and I wish that were possible, because if I had owl messengers, that would be how I would send out _all_ of my mail. But the two-way radio is super practical. I don’t think I can run the farm without it.”

 

“I don’t believe for a minute that there’s anything you can’t do,” he said, going up to her and caging her against the counter with his arms. His lips found the underside of her jaw and she sighed, giving him access.

 

She eventually guided his lips upward with a gentle nudge, catching his face in her hands, pressing an open mouthed kiss on his lips. His response was immediate and he moved up against her, wrapping his arms around her in a tight embrace.

 

She felt herself being lifted off the ground and she gasped quietly, giggling. “You are _really_ tall, Jughead Jones.”

 

“Is that a complaint?” he asked, grinning.

 

“Heck, no. It makes you handy around the farm.”

 

“Well, so long as you have use for me.”

 

She kissed him again, but they heard footsteps from the porch so they separated, and Betty welcomed Reggie and Kevin as they lumbered noisily into the kitchen and went straight for the sink. Farmer John arrived shortly after and Betty called Cheryl, who apparently was still in the garage, chit chatting, probably with her personal trainer, on the phone.

 

They all sat for lunch and it was a rowdy crowd, but Betty did love it. She loved the conversation and company. She was reminded of how it used to be like this everyday with Trev alive. She remembered how he did take every opportunity to be alone with her, just like the way Jughead had just done. It pained her a little, however, that she couldn’t remember much more beyond Trev’s presence, or the gentle, loving kisses he would place on her cheek or forehead.

 

She was forgetting Trev’s passion for her, because the feel of Jughead’s kiss on her lips and neck were such overwhelmingly fresh memories that it sent heat throughout her body.

 

A single glance at Jughead and she would catch him staring at her. His eyes would flicker briefly to her lips before catching her gaze again. His small smile stroked her desire like a feather and she knew he wanted her. It made her feel beautiful and desirable, and it spread an overwhelming warmth through her body.

 

Had it been like that with Trev? Of course it had been, at some point, but it was becoming harder and harder to associate those feelings with him.

 

Jughead leaned over and whispered in her ear. “You are so gorgeous.”

 

 _God_ , she thought. _I want this man so bad._

 

She gave him a look that she hoped conveyed how much she wanted to reward him for his words. He smirked back, probably getting the message.

 

On her other side, Cheryl leaned into her and whispered, “You are both eye-fucking so hard right now.”

 

She cast Cheryl a chastising glare, but one look at Kevin across the table and she realized that he had noticed, too. She felt herself blushing.

 

“Sorry,” she finally muttered at her sister in law.

 

Cheryl arched an eyebrow. “What are you apologizing for? More importantly, who are you apologizing to? Me? Why would you?”

 

Cheryl’s questions caught her completely off guard and she had to wonder. _Why, indeed?_

 

_**********_

 

The day easily progressed to evening. Betty tended to her soap and cheese production while checking in on the pregnant goats with Farmer John, one of which was now in labor. Barring any issues, one of the goats would be a mama by the end of the day.

 

Kevin’s newest project, a chicken jungle gym, was also in full swing. He clearly loved the chickens more than he let on, because with the chickens being more or less free range, they were happy enough, but something for them to climb and roost on in the open air definitely seemed like something they would enjoy, and if Kevin was making it, it was probably going to look pretty. He was a carpenter, first and foremost, so Betty loved it when he did woodwork for her farm. She checked on him, as well, making sure he had all he needed to complete the project in the time he planned for.

 

Jughead was back on the porch, writing. He went hours on coffee and cigarettes, interrupted only by Reggie, who eventually appeared and told her the deed’s been done and that all the foxes had been drugged and relocated, except for the ones now in his truck. Those foxes were scheduled to be released elsewhere.

 

She sighed, relieved that no foxes had to die for their convenience. “Thanks, Reg. Just send me the check.”

 

Reg saluted, heading to his truck. “Will do, B Coop!”

 

“Are you not staying for dinner?”

 

“Nope! Mom’s going to poker night this time.” He jumped into the driver seat and started his car. “Take care, lady! Tell Cheryl I’m always open to threesomes.”

 

“That’ll never happen, Reg.”

 

“You never know!” he yelled above the roar of his engine as he pulled out of Betty’s property.

 

Betty shook her head.  

 

“Is it weird that I like the guy?” Jughead said from his seat on the porch.  

 

She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. “No. He’s irritating sometimes, but he’s such a well-meaning goofball.”

 

“Ah,” he responded, as if suddenly remembering something. “I know. He reminds me of Archie.”

 

“Your best friend, right?”

 

Jughead nodded, whipping out his phone. “Which reminds me, I need to text Mr. and Mrs. Andrews.”

 

As he concentrated on his phone, she went inside and  started making preparations for dinner.  As it turned out, Kevin and Farmer John weren’t joining, either, so it was just her, Cheryl, and Jughead.  It did not, however, prevent Kevin from texting her with the foreboding, “You have a lot of explaining to do, young lady.”

 

She didn’t want to think much about it, since she didn’t know if she was ready to discuss this with anyone, not even Jughead.

 

When dinner was ready and Betty had called both her housemates to sit down, Jughead was still texting with his best friends.

 

“Do you mind putting that away? It’s rude!” Cheryl said loftily.

 

Betty shot Cheryl a scowl. “Like you never texted at the dinner table.”

 

Jughead hit send and put his hands up. “I just needed to send off a couple of things, that’s all.”  

 

Betty could have sworn Jughead and Cheryl exchanged some kind of look, which Betty found slightly suspicious, but she didn’t pry.

 

Just then, two pings sounded out at the same time. Cheryl’s eyes lingered on it disdainfully before she shot Jughead a glare.

 

“Get your shit together, Jonesy,” Cheryl scolded.

 

He switched off the sound of the phone and glared right back at her. “I am. Just ignore my phone, okay?”

 

The phone continued to light up, so he put it away.

 

“You should’ve texted them earlier,” Cheryl said.

 

“They just miss me,” he said, hastily.  

 

Betty rolled her eyes. “Leave him alone, Cher.”

 

“Just saying. If they miss you that much, you should invite them to stay here.”

 

 _“No,”_ Jughead said pointedly. “I have rules about that and they know it. This is my writing space. It stays sacred.”

 

Betty looked at him in surprise and he blushed slightly.

 

Cheryl’s eyebrow arched in surprise. Clearly, this was an unexpected response, in spite of her ribbing. “You’re fine writing with _me_ around.”

 

Jughead sighed, eyes rolling. Again, he shot Cheryl a look, like _See what you made me do?_ “It’s just a bunch of things I’d rather not get into,” he said. “Besides, having Archie and Veronica around where I can be creative takes me out of that headspace sometimes. I love them, but they have no boundaries around me. It’s complicated.”

 

Betty didn’t know why this bothered her. “So you’ll never invite them here?”

 

He shrugged. “To be determined.”

 

Betty tried not to let his words get to her. She wasn’t sure why there was a niggling thought in her brain about this. Why should it matter to her that he refused to have them here?

 

She didn’t know the answers yet, so she shook off her thoughts and tried to enjoy dinner with Jughead and Cheryl.

 

The conversation was animated, anyway. Cheryl always brought a nice touch of controversy and provocation, and Jughead, being unafraid of her, just spurred Cheryl even more.

 

At one point, Cheryl called him a hobo, which somewhat riled Betty up. She hardly got provoked by Cheryl anymore, but this touched a nerve with her.

 

“Cher!” she hissed. “Don’t call him that! It’s not funny!”

 

Cheryl seemed mildly surprised. “Jeez, take a chill pill! I was just kidding!”

 

Betty bit back her response of how Jughead had been homeless at some point because she didn’t know if Jughead wanted that to be known. “Just _don’t.”_

 

She caught Jughead’s eye and he was giving her a tiny half smile. He reached under the table and gave her knee a gentle squeeze.

 

After dinner, they helped her clear the plates, put away the leftovers, and wipe the table.

 

“I’m going to bed,” Cheryl declared, stretching her arms over her head. “My trainer’s coming early in the morning. Wanna join us for some yoga? I’ll pay for it.”

 

“Me and my First World options. Whatever will I do?”

 

Jughead actually laughed. Betty was pleased with herself but didn’t show it.

 

“Please,” Cheryl muttered. “You’re lucky I don’t demand for some pumpkin spiced lattes. So are you gonna yoga with me?”

 

“I was a trained ballet dancer, Cher. Yoga poses do nothing for me.”

 

“Whatever, Black Swan. It’s the meditation that you should be looking into. You got mad stuff going on in your head.”

 

There was that Cheryl Blossom straight talk again, and Betty resented the fact that _now_ she was thinking about it. Stubbornly, Betty said she was good and Cheryl just shrugged.

 

Cheryl left and as her footsteps faded, Betty gravitated to Jughead’s side, smiling up at him with warm affection. He slipped his arm around her waist and pressed soft kisses on her lips.

 

“What are you thinking?” he asked, softly.

 

She closed her eyes for a few seconds, just enjoying the feather-light touch of his lips. “A movie. In the living room. Maybe something scary, but not _too_ scary.”

 

She felt the flick of his tongue along her neck and she sighed.

 

“Go on. I’m listening,” he said.

 

She could’ve sworn he was doing everything but that. _“Cabin in the Woods?”_ she breathed.

 

“Great choice,” he said, cupping her face in his hands as he kissed her, his tongue coaxing her lips to part for him.

 

She sighed into his kiss, thinking that sooner or later, she was going to make a man out of him in this kitchen, but not tonight.

 

She pulled away gently, even as he made it difficult with every velvety stroke of his lips and tongue. “I’ll meet you back down in the living room, alright?”

 

He stared down at her, as if he couldn’t believe she was _actually_ going to make him watch a movie with her, but she grinned up at him mischievously. “Well, I have to play _a little bit_ hard-to-get, don’t you think?”

 

Chuckling, he threw his head back in frustration. “Right. Obviously.” He was smiling and rubbing her shoulders, but he did have to physically remove himself. “I think I’ll go take a shower before we start this movie. A cold shower.”

 

She laughed and let him go up first. They had their own bathrooms, but she didn’t think they’d make it up the stairs chastely if they climbed it together.

 

Only after she heard his door shut did she make her way up to her bedroom.

 

**********

 

With both of them freshly showered and some wine to cap off the evening, Betty found that snuggling with him on the couch, even with the screams of wayward characters on screen serving as a backdrop, was intensely relaxing.

He sat sprawled on one end of the couch, his long legs accommodated by the soft ottoman nearby. She curled up on his side, her head resting on the crook of his shoulder.

 

With her hand gently rubbing the hard planes of his stomach and his hand gently caressing the curve of her waist, it was as if they were consciously restraining themselves so they could get through this without falling victim to the wiles of an uncontrollable make-out session. It did, however, make for a very comfortable cuddle.  Keeping their eyes glued to the screen and their comical reactions to what they were seeing serving to make it all very enjoyable.  

 

She opted to drink wine this time, and she may have had more wine than she could handle, because towards the end of the movie, Betty felt her eyes drooping sleepily.  She was drifting between waking and sleeping when she heard Jughead’s voice in her ear.

 

It was a soothing, rumbling murmur, more likely to lull her back to sleep than wake her.

 

His chuckle reverberated through her body, sparking a small fire in the pit of her stomach. She smiled, running her fingers through his hair and arching her neck to put her mouth over his.

 

 _Now_ she wanted to make out with him.

 

Her tongue probed between his lips and he met it with his, slowly, dipping and sweeping as their lips pressed together in a hungry massage. But he chuckled again, moving away as he smoothed her silky hair back from her face.

 

“Betts, I want to, but you’re a little tipsy,” he said, softly.

 

“I’m not,” she whined, trying to catch his lips again.

 

“You so are.” He gently coaxed her to her feet. “Come on, I’ll take you to bed.”

 

She giggled softly. “Mmm, yes, take me to bed.”

 

Laughing, he led her up the stairs, his hands around her waist to guide her. “I will, and you’re going to sleep, while I take _another_ cold shower.”

 

She just felt inebriated enough to speak more boldly. “I can help you with that.”

 

He sighed. “I know you can, so God help me.”

 

She pouted and her hands traveled south of him. “I’m not drunk, Juggie. Not completely...”

 

“Half is drunk enough. Now come on.”

 

She supposed he was right, and really, she was fully aware that he was being responsible, and that he was looking out for her. She still wished she could push him through his bedroom door and do unmentionable things to him, but yeah, she was half drunk.

 

Even if she had her full faculties, she couldn’t physically push him through anything.

 

 _He’s so big and strong._ She giggled at the thought, pressing her hands over the muscles of his arms. “I really love the feel of these,” she said, pressing a wet kiss to his jaw.

 

“Archie’s smelly socks. Misused apostrophes. Michael Bolton songs…”

 

“What are you rambling about?”

 

“I am remembering things to kill my boner.”

 

“Bad grammar can kill your boner?”

 

“More than anything. Misuse of apostrophes are the worst.”

 

“I minored in literature. This is not making me want you less.”

 

He smiled lazily, leading her through her bedroom door. “And I don’t want you to want me less. Just _not right now.”_

 

He led her to her bed and he pulled her bedsheets back for her to slip into.

 

Sighing, she sank into her mattress and pillows, curling on her side as he pulled the covers over her.  “You’re a good man, Juggie,” she whispered, feathering the back of her hand against his cheek.

 

He smiled and pressed his lips to hers. She tried to deepen it but he pulled back. “Goodnight.”

 

She sighed. “Goodnight.”

 

He stood and as he left, he rubbed her back, then her ass. She giggled and he chuckled.

 

She heard him leave, and the last thing she remembered hearing was the click of the doorknob on her bedroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next one's going to be super spicy.


	7. Luscious French

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She didn’t have many date dresses, since her club clothes, so often picked for purposes of dancing at gay bars, didn’t seem to work for this occasion, but she knew someone who would have something for her to wear. 
> 
> “Talk to me, baby,” Cheryl said as Betty stepped into her room.
> 
> “I need an outfit for a date. Sexy, but not slutty--”
> 
> “What’s wrong with slutty?”
> 
> “Classy, but friendly,” Betty finished with a grin.
> 
> Cheryl’s lip curled in disgust. “What’s the point of class if you can’t make someone feel less than you?”
> 
> “Do you have something I can use or don’t you?”
> 
> Her sneer turned into a smirk. “I knew this was going to happen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a lot of Pinterest surfing done for this chapter, because I like to be inspired by pretty pictures. Basically, the way Betty and Jughead will look in this chapter was heavily influenced by photoshoots that had me oohing and ahhing at the sheer gorgeousness of the actors that portray them. As tempted as I am to throw a Pinterest Board together that has all those inspiring pictures in there for this fic (and I totally love that idea, don't get me wrong), some might find that venture a little too fourth wall, so I'm leaving it out.

_Excerpt from_ **_Harvest to Home_ ** **,** **_Luscious French_ **

 

_“When it comes to French cuisine, we are often bombarded with images of buttery croissants, rich glazed desserts, and perhaps impossibly tiny servings. We forget that these stereotyped foods are but a fraction of what French cuisine has to offer. When we think of France, we think of Paris, but there is so much more to France than the City of Lights. There is Basque, Montpellier, Avignon, Bourges, among many other French cities, each with distinct cuisines and signature dishes, most of which are about as simple to prepare as any home cooked meal._

 

_Let me introduce you to a couple of them that break the French cuisine stereotypes: Barigoule of Spring Vegetables and Chicken Basquaise...”_

 

_\--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast _

  


Betty felt electric the following day, especially when Jughead casually asked, “Are we still on for tonight?” after breakfast.

 

When she told him _of course, did he change his mind?_ he sidled up to her, kissed the crook of her neck and said, “Nope. Can’t wait.” in her ear.

 

His breath on her neck gave her delicious shivers and she had to check herself all day--her smile was so bright.

 

She didn’t have many date dresses, since her club clothes, so often picked for purposes of dancing at gay bars, didn’t seem to work for this occasion, but she knew someone who would have something for her to wear.

 

“Talk to me, baby,” Cheryl said as Betty stepped into her room.

 

“I need an outfit for a date. Sexy, but not slutty--”

 

“What’s wrong with slutty?”

 

“Classy, but friendly,” Betty finished with a grin.

 

Cheryl’s lip curled in disgust. “What’s the point of class if you can’t make someone feel less than you?”

 

“Do you have something I can use or don’t you?”

 

Her sneer turned into a smirk. “I knew this was going to happen.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Jughead asked me the other day if I wanted to swap my car for his precious motorcycle, after you both so viciously made fun of me.”

 

“Viciously? Please. And did he ask you first or—?”

 

“Okay, I asked to use his motorcycle first. He proposed the swap.”  Cheryl was grinning, so she was pleased by the deal. She went to her closet and threw it open. “Writer boy at least knows how to treat you. I’m going to cruise for some chicks tonight with that hot piece of machinery.”

 

Betty sighed and rolled her eyes. “Do you even know how to drive that thing?”

 

“Don’t insult me, Betty. I have bikes because I look sexy as fuck on them. But that’s neither here nor there. I had the yoga instructor bring something with him from New York.” She pulled out a box and laid it on the bed. “You can thank me later.”

 

Betty’s jaw dropped as she threw open the lid. The dress was a dusky, silky pink, the material luscious to look at and touch. It dipped low in the front, held up by spaghetti straps. The beautiful embroidery of bright flowers on one side accentuated an otherwise boring style. This dress would hug her figure beautifully. A pair of pink, strappy shoes were in the box, too.

 

“You like?” Cheryl asked.

 

“I like!” Betty gasped. “Will it fit me?”

 

“Do you take me for an idiot? Of course it’ll fit!”

 

“How did you--”

 

“I’ve been buying dresses for my girlfriends for years, hon. I know what your size is. And of course, I got you nice underwear to match.” Cheryl lifted the dress out of the box and laid it on the bed. At the bottom of the box were a matching bra and panties that were more lace than cloth.

 

Betty looked at it doubtfully. “Won’t those itch?”

 

Cheryl looked offended. “This is _Faire Frou Frou,_ only the most expensive underwear money can buy. You can bet this is comfortable as fuck.”

 

She cast her sister-in-law a grateful smile. “Sorry I doubted you. Thank you for all this. You are an angel wrapped in devil’s clothing. How much do I owe you?”

 

Cheryl scoffed. “Please. You are the only person I know who sincerely cares for me. Consider this my love letter to you.”

 

Before Cheryl could avoid her, Betty threw her arms over her. Cheryl stiffened in her arms.

 

“Oh, just go with it, Cher,” Betty whispered, grinning. It wasn’t like Cheryl had much of a choice. She was a little thing compared to Betty, so there wasn’t much Cheryl could do to resist.

 

Cheryl sighed and finally hugged Betty back. “Fine, you blonde bitch. And if you tell anybody what I just told you, I will slit your throat.”

 

“I know.”  

 

When she finally let Cheryl go, she kissed her sister-in-law on the cheek and said, “I love you. You know that, right?”

 

“Why do you think I did all this for you?”

 

Betty smiled. She packed the dress back in the box and took the box in her hands. “You be careful on that bike now.”

 

“You know I will be. Tell Jughead I’ll even have it cleaned for him before I return it. I may just do naughty things on it.”

 

Betty made a face. “Maybe I won’t tell him that.”

 

Cheryl laughed. “Well, have fun. Do everything I would do.”

 

Betty nodded and left. She didn’t know if she would ever be ready to do everything Cheryl did.

  
******

The thing about dates is that relative to people like Archie and Veronica, Jughead didn’t go on a lot of them, so he never developed a practiced nonchalance for it. Every date was some kind of major event in his psyche. So lone wolf though he tended to be, he always needed support and encouragement when the moon was full (or as he called it: date night).

 

He looked at his phone sitting on the dresser, which currently had Archie’s face looking out of it. “What do you think?”

 

“You look good, man.”

 

Jughead sighed. He looked like a fucking douchebag, is what he thought.

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” came Veronica’s voice from the speaker.

 

Archie was shoved aside and Veronica's face came into view. She stared out of it, then smiled. “Oh, Jug! You’re an absolute smokeshow! That suit brings out your eyes and she will totally drop her panties for you.”

 

Jughead laughed out of nerves. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “I gotta put on something else--”

 

 _“Don’t_ be ridiculous!” Veronica hissed. “I totally meant what I said. That suit fits your lean figure perfectly. And I’m glad you left out the tie. You’re sexier without one. Stop hating on yourself. You look sharp.”

 

He sighed and looked at his reflection one more time. His suit was a basic black, form fitting, and slick. The plain white blouse he wore with it made him look put-together in spite of the omitted tie and loosened buttons at the top. It was simple, comfortable, and about as good as it was going to get for him. His hair was a mess, but he decided hair products would be kind of gross if Betty had a hankering to run her hands through it, which he fervently wished she would do.

 

“Thanks for sending it over, V,” Jughead said somewhat bashfully. “I would’ve gone out in jeans and looked like Betty’s personal assistant, otherwise.”

 

“No problem, my love. And it was clever of you to tell me about Cheryl Blossom’s yoga instructor. Who knew that Blossom girl could be so nice?”

 

Jughead refrained from telling Veronica that Cheryl had only done it because Cheryl didn’t want her sister-in-law to be seen hanging out with trailer trash. It was also possible that Cheryl’s soft spot for Betty was more powerful than Cheryl let on. “Yeah, she’s a fucking peach.”

 

There was a knock on the door and Jughead jumped at the sound.

 

“Let me in, Jughead. I need to QA you!”

 

“Shit. Speak of the devil,” Jughead said, opening the door.

 

Cheryl pranced in, slamming the door behind her and looking Jughead up and down. “Excellent. You look goddamn expensive and I personally would not be ashamed to be seen with you.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Here, give her these.” Cheryle produced a tasteful bouquet of flowers and tossed them on his bed. “I also brought you these.” She tossed him a box.

 

He caught it and found that they were condoms. He felt his face grow warm. “Goddamn it, Cheryl!”

 

“What? Safety first!”

 

“I had him covered,” came Veronica’s voice from the phone. “Jug, you _did_ get that extra package I sent, right?”

 

Jughead felt like melting through the floor. “Yes, I did. Never send me a box of condoms and label them ‘XXX sweet treats’ ever again.”

 

Cheryl turned at the sound, astonished. “Who the hell is that?”

 

“Veronica Lodge-Andrews. I’m Jughead’s foster sister. How would you even know his size?”

 

“I may eat pussy, but I know the foot-to-dick ratio. How did _you_ know his size?”

 

“Cheryl! God, you women live to torment me!”

 

“Hey, there!” Archie greeted, his face coming into view. “Are you Cheryl Blossom? I’m Archie. Thanks for looking out for my man, Jug. Wish we could be there for him, but he’s got this weird writer rule thing.”

 

“Aren’t you adorable,” Cheryl said flatly. “Can I talk to your hot wife? Her sassiness turns me on.”

 

“Christ, would you take it easy?” Jughead begged.

 

“It’s okay, Jug. Cheryl and I were cut from the same cloth,” Veronica huffed. “Bitches get shit done, amirite?”

 

Cheryl smiled and winked. “How about you ditch that redhead and taste this one, gorgeous?”

 

“Hey!” Archie cried while Veronica giggled hysterically.

 

Jughead stepped between them. “Alright, you home wrecker. Stop flirting with my sister and get out. Thanks for the flowers. Thanks for everything, but I think I got this--”

 

“You better give Betty a great time, you Leonardo DiCaprio wannabee or I will skin you alive, slowly.”

 

“Feisty! I love it!” Veronica whooped.

 

“Babe!” Archie whined. “Really?”

 

“Cheryl,” Jughead said calmly, holding her by the shoulders. “Is there anything constructive you want to say to me?”

 

She glared at him fiercely. “Take her dancing to that place I told you.”

 

He fidgeted uneasily. “I am the worst dancer.”

 

“She is good enough for the both of you. Man up and take her there.” With that, Cheryl turned and left.

 

Jughead sighed and looked back at his best friends. “I am going to fuck this up.”

 

Archie took the screen. “Listen to me, man. From what you’ve told me, she already likes you, and that’s without you being anything different from what you are. She likes you for your brains, your weird fashion sense, and probably the way you make her feel. If you step out of your comfort zone for her, she will probably be head over heels for you by the end of the night. Be yourself and everything will be fine, no matter how badly you dance.”

 

Jughead let Archie’s words sink in and was surprised by how calming they were.

 

“Aw, baby,” Veronica said. “That was beautiful. This is so why I love you.” She gave Archie a kiss that Jughead would rather not watch.

 

Jughead turned away and rolled his eyes. “Alright guys. This is where I leave you. Thanks for everything, you two.”

 

“Bye, Jug,” Archie said. “Good luck and enjoy. It’s going to be great.”

 

The call ended and Jughead took a deep breath. He took stock of everything before he went and got Betty.

 

He had two boxes of condoms (Cheryl actually did get the size right), flowers for a beautiful date, a car that was probably too cool for him, and his grown ass self. He could do this.

 

Taking Cheryl’s car keys and pocketing them, he headed out of his room.

 

********

 

 _6:30 @ the living room,_ was what they had agreed upon by text and Jughead didn’t quite know what to do waiting there at 6:25.  

 

He felt slightly awkward, slightly slouched on the sofa chair with flowers across his lap while he counted the minutes and checked off items in his head.

 

Cash and credit card? Check.

 

Reservations? Check.

 

Emergency cigs? Check.

 

Emergency condom?

 

 _I feel like a dick,_ he thought dourly. _But yeah, check._

 

He twirled a cig between his fingers, tempted to step outside and smoke it, but he smelled so goddamn fresh and clean, and he didn’t want the first thing Betty remembered of him to be the smell of Marlboros.

 

When he heard the footsteps coming from the hallway, he tucked the cigarette away in his breast pocket where his pack was and stood, straightening his suit.  When Betty walked into the living room, he could not have been prepared for what he saw.

 

Her dress was pink and it had a flower on the front of it, which he supposed was exactly her style, but the color of it brought out her tan, and the cut of it showed off her gorgeous body like he would never believe.  Her legs went on forever and her shoes gave her an unbelievable silhouette.

 

Her loosely tossed blonde hair framed her face in long sexy waves, and _holy shit_ , she smelled great.

 

He swallowed, speechless in the face of her overwhelming beauty.

 

She smiled, her eyes looking him up and down. “Hi, handsome. Those flowers for me?”

 

He blinked back his senses and looked at the bouquet he was holding. “Uh, yeah. They are--” he lost his train of thought as he looked back at her. “God, Betts, you’re fucking breathtaking.”

 

She smiled and looked down shyly. “Thanks, Juggie.”

 

She stepped towards him, close enough that she only had to tilt her head up and he only had to lower his lips so they could kiss, softly. Then more deeply. And so early on, her fingers were running through his hair, sending electricity coursing through his body.

 

Jughead’s breath was ragged by the time they separated and he could only stare into her eyes, completely gone on her.

 

“I’ll put these in water,” she breathed, the flowers in her hands. “I’ll be a minute and we can go.” She walked off, the sway of her hips captivating him.

 

She had his full attention. All night, for sure, and he was utterly and absolutely done for.

  
  
*******

Jughead never would have found the quaint french bistro thirty minutes out of Riverdale if Kevin hadn’t pointed him to it, so he had to admit that he owed Kevin more than he would probably be willing to admit.

 

The food was delicious, and Betty kept looking at him with sultry, lidded eyes throughout dinner, which he could only attribute to the fact that she didn’t have to get dinner ready for everybody this time. They leaned over the table to talk, even if they could hear each other fine across the table. He laced his fingers through hers because he wanted to touch her, and she let him, smiling at the contact. Their knees touched under the table, and she rubbed her calf slowly against his.

 

She talked about her parents, how her father taught her how to fix cars and their engines and how her mother had pushed her to be the best and brightest student in all her years of schooling.

 

He talked about his mother who, while she spoke to him civilly over the phone, still harbored resentment for his choosing his father over her, and his sister, Jellybean, who barely knows him but for the birthday and Christmas gifts he sends her way every year.  

 

He told her stories about his life with both Archie and Veronica, and about having walked the red-carpet when he dated Trula Twyst _and_ because Archie always invited him to big events, like the Grammy’s, MTV Awards, the Emmy’s, and even at one time, the Oscars, because Archie had been nominated for voicing a cartoon character in an Oscar nominated movie.

 

In turn, she told him stories about her twin nephew and niece, about witnessing the extravagant lifestyles of her in-laws, and having a brother in the FBI--spending time with him at the gun range and having a GPS tracker installed on _all_ their phones in case they were in danger because of _his_ line of work.

 

And amidst all the talking, Jughead accepted and encouraged the kisses. The searing, involving touching of their lips, always swift, but also heated.

 

Jughead felt like he was in high school again, the weirdo making out with the cheerleader in a booth at the local diner, because his hormones were raging like a teenager.   

 

He had to remind himself that they _weren’t_ teenagers. They were grown-ass adults in their late twenties, and they had both seen their share of dating mishaps and snafus, failures and tragedies, so they both supposedly knew exactly what they were getting into.

 

Only Jughead didn’t quite know. He hadn’t cleared many of the questions he had, for her or for himself. He didn’t know if she considered him a possible long term relationship or a temporary, passing thing. But he certainly _didn’t mind_ if she wanted something more lasting. He wondered, throughout the night, if he should bring it up, or if it was too soon to be so heavy handed.

 

He’d known her for a month now, and at the very least they’d formed a friendship based on mutual respect. The attraction was powerful, that much had been evident from the beginning, but he’d only acted on his feelings for her the last few days.

 

The night before, when he brought her to her bedroom, he had seen a photo of Trev on her dresser. It wasn’t a large, framed photo by any means. It was of Trev and her, arms around one another on what he recognized as one of their farm fences. Betty’s smile had been radiant as she looked at the camera. Trev was looking at her, so utterly besotted. The photo was tucked between the mirror and its frame and it was a photo Jughead knew she saw every morning as she got ready for the day.  

 

It was the only one she had of him in the house that he knew. She didn’t have his photos up in the living room or anywhere else. There were photos of her siblings, niece and nephew, Cheryl and her twin, and some of her with her farmhands and the kids who came to help, everywhere, but none of them were of Trev, except for that one on her dresser.

 

He was unsure where he stood, but it was clear that seeing Trev’s photo upset him unreasonably enough that he had to call Archie just to talk about stupid things. He had needed Archie to get his mind off that goddamn picture that was suddenly haunting his thoughts.

 

It bothered him that he was jealous of a dead spouse, one she hardly talked about, but clearly still felt a deep affection for. And that was certainly normal. One could argue that he ought to be bothered if she didn’t care if her husband was dead and gone. This just supported the underlying truth of Betty’s love--it was strong and lasting. Just maybe he wasn’t sure if she was willing to let go of it for something new.

 

Her finger tracing the line of his jaw broke him out of his reverie. He blinked and gave her an apologetic look. “Sorry, were you saying something?”

 

“You spaced out for a moment,” she said, quietly. “Penny for your thoughts?”

 

He smiled, trying to frantically think of an excuse and settled for _some_ of the truth. “You. I was thinking of you,” he said, taking her hand and kissing the back of it. “And how all this is unreal to me. Like the school geek getting the prom queen to say yes to him.”

 

She laughed. “Jughead… I was never the prom queen.  Cheryl took that title, _three times._ Unprecedented since you only get two proms. I bet that if I had known you in high school, I would have dated you for sure.”

 

“No quarterbacks in your dating history?”

 

She scoffed. “Please. Those neanderthals could never keep up with me. I had a brief romance with my co-editor at the school paper, but he mansplained stuff to me one too many times.”

 

Laughing, Jughead pulled her closer. “See, that’s where you made your mistake. You went with the editor. You should’ve gone with the feature writer. That’s the shit.”

 

She grinned at him. “You were the feature writer at your paper.”

 

“Hells, yeah. I kicked ass and took names. I solved the mystery of the meat at the cafeteria. Also, and I’ll ask you not to bring this up when Archie’s around, I got a teacher kicked out for having inappropriate relations with a student.”

 

Her eyes widened. “With Archie?”

 

Jughead nodded. “Given that she did get a considerable number of students all hot and bothered for her, it was still gross and criminal of her to get in Archie’s pants.”

 

“Wow. How did Archie take it?”

 

He gave a noncommittal shrug. “He knew it was wrong, but Archie’s kind of a fuckboy. He kind of dug that he was scoring with a teacher.  I think I might have hit him upside the head for it, but Archie was never the deepest thinker. He writes a hell of a song, but social issues be damned. If he’s having a good time, everything is right with the world.”

 

She gave an embarrassed chuckle. “We were a private school. Scandal was not common in our halls. At least, not publicly. I basically discovered we had a cocaine problem in our school, girls and boys sniffing blow in locker rooms and bathrooms.  Heck, Polly was one of them, but it got swept under the rug. When word got around that I wanted to publish it, my locker got trashed and tainted in pig’s blood, I got threatening letters, and my parents had to make a _huge ass_ donation so that the board wouldn’t _think_ about expelling me.”

 

“Jesus,” he gasped. “Pig’s blood?”

 

“Carrie influence, probably. The message was ‘Go to hell tat tling slut.’ I can probably tell you who did it, but I felt jaded at that point. The adults were just as bad as the teenagers. And then the accident with Polly happened and I was in jail with her, so yeah, my options and my clout grew thin. My editor published a highly watered down version of the original expose and it basically got relegated to the a small panel in the second page.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

She shrugged. “You live and you learn. I realized I wasn’t cut out to be a journalist. I was waffling at that point already, though, between journalism and interior design. I just figured it was a sign that interior design was in my future.”

 

“Others would say that was a baptism by fire, and since you got out of it in relatively one piece, journalism was your destiny.”

 

“Maybe, but since living in the farm, I’ve never wondered about the what if. I am so happy where I am, Juggie.”

 

Jughead was glad to hear it.

 

After dinner, Jughead told her they were going somewhere else, at which point his palms felt the slightest bit sweaty. She looked excited by the prospect of something else, and he was willing to bet she would be happy with the slightest thing, but this was a dance club, and she would love it, but he had no idea how he was going to swing the idea of, “I don’t dance, so go ahead and enjoy while I sit here and watch you at it.”

 

He had a feeling, in the pit of his stomach, that this was not a realistic proposal. He would just have to hope that she liked him enough to forgive him for being absolutely incapable of moving to music.

 

So when they found parking in the surrounding streets of the club and he took her hand to walk her two blocks before rounding the corner to the club, Betty was effectively surprised, and then completely delighted.  The latin music wafting from the club doors gave Jughead an immeasurable amount of anxiety. He was bad enough with American pop music, but latin music was sure to make him look even more ridiculous.

 

He managed to smile at how happy she looked, however, and she hurriedly pulled him through the doors. The colors, the lights, and the sounds were captivating. Bodies moved expertly on the dance floor, hips, arms, and legs moving in impossibly fluid angles.

 

“Oh, Juggie!” she cried, bouncing on her feet. “This is amazing! I’ve always wanted to come here! How did you know?”

 

He shrugged nervously. “Lucky guess.” He jammed his hands into his pockets, itching to step out and smoke. The beat of the music was now pounding in his ears and panic was settling in the pit of his stomach. This was a mistake.

 

New music started, and the intro notes had everybody screaming excitedly, including Betty.

 

“We need to dance to this!” she squealed, her beautiful green eyes wide with glee. She took him by the hands and tugged in the direction of the dance floor.

 

He frowned. “Isn’t this a Justin Beiber song?”

 

She laughed and shook her head. “Not this version.  This is the original by the Puerto Rican singer, Luis Fonsi.”

 

His heart was racing as he resisted her pull. “Right. Hardly makes a difference. Listen, Betty, I don’t know how to do this. I can’t dance.”

 

She arched an eyebrow, smiling, but instead of the gentle, forgiving look he was hoping for, she looked challenged. Like she wasn’t going to let him win this one. “Everybody can dance, Juggie.”

 

“I can’t. Or else I’m terrible at it. It’s not really my thing.”  There. He’s said it.

 

She looked utterly undeterred. “Come here,” she said, pulling him close, her lips to his ear. “Have you ever made love to a woman?”

 

He had not expected that question, here, on the dance floor, in the middle of a panic attack. Her soft breath down his neck sent his blood rushing to places, some of it to his face. “Um, I’ve--I mean, you know-- _had sex--”_

 

She chuckled. “Just _move_ that way with me. I’ll do the rest.”

 

The thought that he just had to _move that way_ with her obliterated his defenses. He found himself being led to the dance floor, his mind gone of fear and replaced by a raging desire, fueled by his imagination of her and him _moving that way._

 

She pulled him flush against her, took his hands, and planted them on her hips, just shy of her ass. “Move like you want to kiss me,” she said.

 

“I always do…”

 

She gave him a sultry smile, looked intensely into his eyes, and when the beat of the music started, she _moved that way._

 

He was enthralled. Her hips were moving in tantalizing circles and her hands were running provocatively through her hair. Mesmerized by her movements and the look of desire in her eyes, he moved, just like she said, to kiss her. She smiled wickedly and moved her lips away. He chased it, but she moved again, and he realized that evasive movements were a dance, and he was inadvertently dancing with her.

 

Amazed, and his hands never leaving her hips, he tentatively moved his body with hers, which made her grin madly.

 

“You’re doing it!” she told him.

 

“I’m doing you,” he murmured in her ear.

 

He could have sworn a moan escaped her, and when she turned around, her ass to him and her body flush against his, the dancing went on, her hands leading his where he should be touching to keep the rhythm going. He pressed his lips to the crook of her shoulder, even while their bodies moved to the beat.  Her fingers were in his hair, and still her hips moved, bumping against his body.

 

However amazing this was, that he was dancing with her without making a complete fool of himself, he was also unbelievably and uncontrollably wound up. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

 

Miraculously, Betty got him to dance two more songs, and just as the third song started, she dragged him off the dancefloor, out of the club, and straight for the car.

 

She turned before she let herself in the car and he crashed into her, lips, tongues, and limbs tangling on the sidewalk, regardless of who could see.   

 

Jughead held her face in his hands, her mouth pliable against his while his body pressed against hers. His erection was surely hitting her in places that was making her moan and all he could do not to drag her into the car, push her skirt up, and fuck her in the back seat was the overwhelming desire to make this last much longer than 5 goddamn minutes.

 

“Take me home, Juggie,” she said desperately, panting into his mouth.

 

Wordlessly tearing himself away from her, he pulled open her passenger side door.  She hopped in and he got in the driver’s seat, tearing out of their parking space and making straight for the farm.

  
  
******

Betty had _never_ felt this way before. She had never _needed_ someone so badly that a ride home in a speeding sports car felt like a crawl through traffic. She had never wanted anyone so badly that a door she had a key to felt like an obstacle that made her want to give up and mount him on the front porch.

 

When Betty grabbed her house keys from her purse, everything but the keys tumbled to her feet and she didn’t care, focusing instead on the lock while Jughead pressed himself behind her, his lips sucking on the skin of her shoulders and neck, and his hands coming around her to keep her flush against him.  

 

She arched her neck, throwing her head back against his shoulder. “Juggie,” she breathed, closing her eyes and running her hand through his hair.

 

“Open the door, Betts,” he said in a soft but decided tone, his teeth rasping against the lobe of her ear.

 

Moaning, she jammed the key in the lock, turned it, and stumbled into the house. Jughead locked the door behind him and pulled her towards the stairs by the hand. She followed impatiently behind him, their ascent interrupted only by the urgent need to kiss and touch.

 

When they finally reached the landing, Jughead lifted her in his arms. She gave a delighted yelp and he smirked, carrying her to his bedroom door.  

 

She felt the grooves of the door on her back and she wrapped her legs around his hips and her arms over his shoulders. She opened her mouth to him and his tongue shoved aggressively against hers while he fumbled to turn the knob.  

 

The door swung open and the only thing that kept them from tumbling to the floor was Jughead’s upper body strength.  He lowered her to her feet and shrugged off his coat while Betty went for his belt and undid it in one fluid movement.

 

Their shoes came next, frantically undoing their own straps and buckles and Betty giggled as he winked at her goofily while they hurried. As soon as the last shoe came off, their lips came together again, and Betty started working on the buttons of Jughead’s blouse.  

 

He whispered her name and it felt like a feather down her spine. His hands pushed down the straps of her dress then traveled to her back where the clasp of her dress was. “You are,” he breathed in her ear, “so goddamn beautiful, Betty.”

 

She closed her eyes and let his lips soothe the shiver his voice had caused. She pulled his blouse out of his pants and undid the rest of his buttons while the zipper to her dress came undone. Her dress pooled at her feet.

 

His blouse fell open at the front and she ran her hand down the lines of his chest and stomach, her fingers tracing the tattoos on his body. And this close to him, she saw the line of hair traveling from his navel down.

 

His lust lidded eyes looked her over for a few seconds before he lifted her face up to dip his tongue into her mouth again.  He walked her backwards until she fell against the bed and he crawled over her body to cover her mouth with his.

 

She gave a gasp as she felt herself lifted up, so that she can lie higher up the bed.  “Juggie, take off your clothes,” she whispered, tugging at his blouse.

 

He smiled down at her, sliding his hand beneath her to reach the clasp of her bra. “You first.”

 

The bra came free, and ordinarily at this point, she would be feeling self-conscious about her nakedness, but she found that with Jughead she felt completely at ease, and she realized that it was because she trusted him. It had been so long since that last happened—trusting the partner she had in bed, and her desire became nearly overwhelming.

 

He slipped off her bra gently, his lust lidded eyes staring like he’d discovered the world in that bed. She smiled and touched his face. “Like what you see?”

 

“God, yes,” he whispered, a tortured groan leaving his lips.

 

Another heartbeat later, he threw her bra over his shoulder and his mouth was on her breast, sucking and licking. She threw her head back and moaned, her fingers running through his hair and her breathing going even heavier.  

 

She felt gentle fingers slip beneath her panties and touch her center, while his thumb circled her clit.  It blew her mind how heinously good it felt, building that ache between her legs while simultaneously soothing it.  

 

She was fast losing cohesive thought, his name escaping her lips as her hands bunched around the fabric of his blouse. She moved her hips to meet his hand and she threw her head back against the pillows.

 

“J-Juggie,” she gasped urgently as his fingers dipped into her and curled gently, teasing that tantalizing bundle of nerves.

 

“Are you coming?” he asked, softly, a crooked smile lifting the corner of his lip. She could feel her own desire fluttering at the pit of her stomach, her gaze pleading him to keep going.  

 

She arched her neck. “God, yeah!” She wailed as she climaxed under his fingers, her hand over his as she rode the orgasm out.  

 

When her senses returned, she saw that he was watching her come the entire time, but instead of looking smug, he looked fascinated. Almost like he couldn’t believe he had done what he just did.

 

As she caught her breath, she kissed him gratefully, her tongue making loving circles around his. He groaned into her mouth and the sound reverberated through her body.

 

“I need you, baby,” he said, desperately, his voice choked with want. He was sliding her panties off her and she slipped out of the garment fluidly, one long leg at a time.

 

Barely recovered but knowing that her desire was still strong, she pushed off his blouse, throwing it aside. He sat back on his knees and she helped him undo the buttons and zipper of his pants.  She helped him out of his pants and boxers, clasping his cock in her hand and sliding her hand down his length.

 

He cursed profanely, falling upon her so that he was moaning into her mouth. She felt him nudge against her core and she wanted nothing more than for him be in her.

 

“That feels good, Betty,” he whispered as her hand moved against him.

 

“I want you inside me,” she pleaded.

 

He groaned, but he reached over to his bed stand and grabbed something from inside his drawer. It was a condom and she took it from him, tearing its packaging open and helping him roll it on. As soon as it was in place, he was within her, stroking slowly, their groans mingling as his mouth closed upon hers.

 

Betty closed her eyes for a moment as he stayed still, enjoying the sensation of him filling her. When her eyes fluttered open, his blue eyes met her green ones, and he began to move. For while, that was how they moved together, with gazes locked, kissing and moaning between strokes.

 

Wanting even more of him, she shifted her knees so that her thighs were wrapping around his body and her ankles were crossing over his ass.

 

“Holy, fuck,” he gasped, his hand clasping the back of her thigh. “Oh, Betty.”

 

He kissed her deeply, their moans combining as he moved. She could tell he liked this small adjustment because his groans grew louder.

 

His desire filled her senses and the her own desire spiked to levels that sent her moaning just as uncontrollably.

 

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop…” She didn’t even realize she was gasping it over and over.

 

“I won’t,” he promised, sucking the soft skin of her neck. “I won’t, baby.”

 

When his pace picked up, the friction built to an insanely pleasurable crescendo. Her nails raked down his back as his groans became urgent. His fingers came between them, his thumb pressing frantic circles on her clit.

 

Her breath quickened and she cried _yes, just like that._

 

“I’m so close,” he groaned. “Betts, you are so fucking amazing.”

 

He pushed harder, and she felt her orgasm crashing into her in waves. She was crying out his name and he came, groaning loudly as he joined her.

  
******

She felt cared for. Precious, even.

 

As they came down from the pleasurable high, he looked her in the eyes, pushed her hair from off her face, then kissed her gently, murmuring softly about how wonderful she was. He kissed her shoulder even as he rolled off her, deftly doing away with the condom and gathering her into his arms.

 

She sighed contentedly, sinking into the pillows as he threw his sheets over their bodies. She felt him kiss the top of her head, felt him move her hair away from her nape so that he could place a soft kiss on her neck.

 

She closed her eyes, letting him pet her into a relaxed state. His hands rubbed her arms, before sliding them down to rest on her stomach. His thumb made gentle circles under her breast and it tickled slightly, but she liked that even sated, he was still trying to cop a feel from her.

 

She covered his hand with hers and looked over her shoulder at him. “I had the best time, Juggie.”

 

He smiled, though sleepily. “Me, too.”

 

The dinner itself had been great. Sitting down with Jughead to dine was always something she looked forward to anyway. Conversation was always interesting and as they got closer, breaking down the physical barriers between them was always enjoyable and stimulating, but when he took her dancing…

 

“Did you know it was Latin Night when you took me to the dance club?”

 

He gave a small sound, groaning softly. “Oh, yeah, and I dreaded it. With pop music, I could’ve gotten away with just standing there, but I knew I was screwed with Latin music.”

 

Laughing, she reached up and kissed his chin. “You did great!”

 

His smirk was one of amusement, like he knew she was being generous with her compliments, but she didn’t feel like she was lying. Jughead had been uncertain and nervous at the beginning, yes, but with proper instruction, he loosened up well, and he knew how to dip her when she told him to, knew how to twist her because she saw him observing the other guy on the floor, knew how to move with her body when she pressed against him. He wasn’t a dancer, but he was a quick study.

 

“Well, I thought you did great,” she said quietly. “Certainly good enough to get me worked up like crazy.”

 

He sighed, closing his eyes as if to re-live a memory. “God, I have never been worked up in public so much in my entire life. You are such and incredible dancer, Betts.”

 

She grinned, loving that it was the dancing part, not just the hip grinding and bumping parts, that got him so turned on. “Flexible, too.”

 

He groaned. “Give me half an hour. I’m not sixteen anymore.”

 

She giggled and snuggled in his embrace. “Go to sleep.”

 

She felt his nose rub down the side of her neck, then his lips kissing her shoulder. “I will.”

 

It occurred to her that the morning she woke up with him just like this, with his chest on her back and her bum nestled into his hips, she had wished it was _real._

 

Now it was. Or it was going to be, and she smiled blissfully to herself with the hope that they would wake up just like this the next morning.

  
  
**********

She was waking up to something else, to something velvety and warm between her legs. As this persistent, pleasurable sensation slowly woke her from her sleep, she gasped with shock, and with a buck of her hips, it dawned on her that Jughead had gone down on her in her sleep.

 

She had barely registered her own moans, her hand diving beneath the sheets to clasp at his hair. Whatever his tongue was doing, it was stoking the delicious heat in her body and she wanted him to keep doing it. He paused, realizing she was _finally_ awake.

 

“Don’t stop,” she pleaded. “Please don’t stop.”

 

She might have felt that low rumbling chuckle from his mouth, and as he continued his ministrations, she sighed and moaned with satisfaction.

 

She whispered his name, telling him how good this was making her feel, telling him how utterly clever he was, but when she felt fingers joining that tongue, she was lost.

 

She came loudly, her vision going white for a few heartbeats before she began to form coherent thoughts again.

 

“Not fair,” she breathed, as Jughead’s head popped out from beneath the blankets, grinning and smug, like he had done something naughty and got away with it.

 

He hovered above her, his gaze roving between her lips and her breasts. “You looked so hot naked under the sheets. I didn’t want to waste the opportunity.”

 

She reached up and cupped his face, her thumb stroking his cheek. “I want to return the favor.”

 

He smirked and shook his head. “That was all for you, babe.”

 

And she could see that he meant it. If she were a blushing virgin, that might have been enough, but she wasn’t, and she wanted more.

 

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You’re sweet, Juggie, but I want you inside me.” She kissed him, her tongue probing into his mouth to stop any kind of protest. She doubted if he would, anyway, judging by the groan that escaped his throat.

 

She rolled him onto his back, and she straddled him easily. As she pulled away from his mouth, she kissed her way down his body, down his ink, and finally to that brilliant line of hair beneath his navel.

 

“I love this tattoo,” she whispered, tracing the words with the pad of her finger.

 

He gasped, his hips bucking slightly. “C-come here.”

 

“In a minute,” she whispered back, taking him in her mouth.

 

He groaned, throwing his head back on the pillows. She pulled her mouth along his length and his fingers were in her hair. His cock was so beautiful, its length and size desirable, its shape and skin lovely to behold. She wanted so much to appreciate it--with her lips and her tongue. She held it in her hand, stroking it with just the right amount of pressure. He was rock solid, but velvety. She liked the reaction she got when she took him in his mouth again. She was enjoying herself, because she was nothing if not a hostess, after all.

 

He began to shake his head, gasping as she licked and sucked. “That feels so goddamn good, Betts.” His eyes rolled back and for a while she thought he was giving in, but he continued to speak. “But you need to stop. I’m going to finish if you don’t.”

 

“Silly. That’s the point,” she said, stroking him with her hand.

 

“Not like that. I want to be inside you,” he breathed. “I want to be inside you, baby.”

 

He’d been using that word. _Baby,_ and God help her, she loved it. She loved being someone’s baby, even if it was because she was screwing his brains out.

 

It was difficult to resist, especially when the ache between her legs was getting increasingly uncomfortable. She gave in, and as she rose up his body, she reached for his drawer of condoms. This time, he grabbed it and tore the wrapper off, sliding it in place.

 

She lowered herself on him and settled herself on his hips with a satisfied sigh.

 

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” he gasped, eyes closing. His hands clasped her hips, and as she braced herself against the sheets, she rolled her hips against him.

 

The sounds that came from him shot heat through her body and she wanted nothing more than to hear it again. She moved the way he wanted and it was just as pleasurable for her.

 

His hand trailed up her arm then came to rest on her breast, his thumb rubbing a nipple gently. She gasped, holding that hand in place as she rode him.

 

His grip on her hips tightened and his hips began to thrust back. “Sweet Jesus, I’m not going to last long,” he cried. “Baby--”

 

The pressure of his hips against hers, that _word,_ was basically all she needed. She climaxed. Intensely. She had never felt such a strong orgasm in her life.

 

She threw her head back, eyes rolling back, and she cried his name, over and over. She might have laced it with profanity. She wasn’t sure, but he was bucking right back, and he was cursing as well, so it might have been him. It was difficult to tell. They were riding the wave together and it was incredible.

 

When finally, the orgasm was spent, she collapsed atop him, their breathing labored. They were both slick with sweat and Betty realized her legs felt like jello. She could barely push herself off him.

 

“Oh,” she gasped, moaning. “Oh, Juggie. That was--”

 

“Incredible,” he finished for her through ragged breath. _“God.”_

 

A few seconds later, he helped her off him. When he’d disposed of the condom, he settled beside her on his side.

 

A smile spread on his face and she grinned back, feeling slightly goofy, but not so much that she would stop grinning.

 

If it was always going to be like that, she was probably going to get addicted. Without thinking, she pressed her hand to his heart, feeling its frantic beating.

 

He held it, then pressed her hand to his lips. Her smile disappeared and she felt a painful pang. That had been such a tender thing to do and she _wished_ it actually meant something, but that wasn’t a conversation they could have so early on.

 

“We’ll have to do that again,” she said to cover up her burgeoning emotions. “Because clearly we are good at this.”

 

He chuckled softly, his gaze never leaving hers. “I’m sure we can work it into our busy schedules.”

 

She laughed. There was always something to do on the farm, but there were definitely advantages to living in the same house.

 

She was suddenly feeling lethargic, her lids fluttering slowly as her body got lulled into rest.

 

“Come here,” he said, pulling her close.

 

Their legs tangled as he pulled the blanket over them. Her hands pressed against his chest, his lips on her forehead.

 

“God, you still smell great,” he said, nuzzling her brow lightly with his lips. His hands rubbed her back gently, keeping her close.

 

She closed her eyes. Was he always like this? Did he always make his women feel precious and _loved?_

 

She didn’t want to dwell on it too much. She didn’t want to fall where no one would catch her. But then, she never did have control over her feelings, especially, she realized, when it came to _him._

  
  
***********

Farms always needed to be tended to, even on weekends, and she was usually not too bad getting up on Saturdays, where she could actually wake up later than usual, mostly because she didn’t have farmhands coming in to have breakfast. But this Saturday was tough.

 

This Saturday, she did not want to get out of bed, because Jughead was wrapped around her and she was immensely comfortable.  When her eyes opened to the amazing warmth of his body around her, she smiled contentedly. When she saw the light of morning illuminating his windows, she debated the merits of leaving his paradise to tending to her responsibilities.

 

She then had to tell herself that the sooner she got stuff on the farm done, the sooner she could spend more time with Jughead, so she quietly got out of bed, trying not to jostle him, and put something on for the short walk from his room to hers.

 

She pulled on her panties and picked up his blouse. She was shrugging it on when she felt Jughead stir.  

 

His warm hand rubbed her back.

 

“Where are you going?” he asked, sleepily. “Get back in here…”

 

She grinned. “The farm still needs to be run. The chickens and goats won’t feed themselves.”

 

He ran his hand up her arm.  “But it’s the weekend and you look way too good in my clothes…”

 

His words ruffled the butterflies that had taken permanent residence in her stomach and she was sorely tempted to let him pull her on top of him, but if she didn’t get out now, she never would.

 

“I really need to do this,” she said apologetically, crawling over to him to give him a quick kiss. “Go back to sleep. You don’t have to get up. It’s only 6:30.”

 

His sighed and smirked. “You _have_ made a morning person of me. I’ll help you with the farm.”

 

Her heart melted with his offer. “You really don’t have to.”

 

“I want to,” he said, giving her another kiss before pushing himself up and slapping her behind.

 

She shrieked and laughed, watching him walk around, naked as he gathered some things from his dresser.  

 

“Enjoying the view?” he asked as he ruffled through his drawers.

 

“Mmm-hmm.”

 

He grinned and jerked his head to the bathroom. “Quick shower?”

 

At least they would have to be standing to do that, right?

 

She supposed she can spare a _few_ more minutes.

  
********  


It was past 7 by the time they got down to the kitchen to make breakfast.

 

She had asked herself, momentarily, what might change between them if they slept together.  On a certain level, she wondered ever so briefly if he was the type who would go on as if nothing had happened, going about his day normally.

 

That would have been devastating for her. It would have been a world of pain, an unending questioning of her life choices. It may not mean he was blowing her off, because she didn’t think Jughead was capable of that cruelty, but even if he were just compartmentalizing, she knew she was incapable of handling that sort of thing without overthinking the hell out of it.

 

Fortunately, he wasn’t that type. He was, in fact, the type who liked to be _closer,_ and she liked that. Exceedingly.

 

He wasn’t obnoxiously close. Occasionally, he would get behind her to press a kiss on her shoulder or be adorably handsy, but those were things she invited him to do, anyway, usually with a wink or a teasing smile.  

 

What she noted were the times he didn’t have to be near, but he opted to be anyway, like when he was casually leaning against the counter, or sitting at the kitchen table, or doing something _with_ her.  He stood just a few inches closer.  Close enough to be able to look her in the eyes when he shot her wordless responses, or close enough that he could reach out and push her hair back, or brush his hand against hers with his knuckles. It was nice, this constant presence of him.

 

She was in the middle of making a brioche french toast, topped with caramelized bananas, roasted pecans, and her house-made maple butter, when they heard the distant rumble of a motorcycle.  

 

Jughead’s eyebrow arched, a smirk forming on his lips. Betty stifled a grin, and when they heard the front door open, she looked over her shoulder expectantly.

 

Cheryl came into view, her red hair tied up in a ponytail, her leather outfit absolutely stunning even if she probably hadn’t changed it from last night.  She stopped in her tracks, surprised, perhaps because she hadn’t expected them to be up, or hadn’t expected them to still be there.  

 

“Morning,” Betty said, neutrally.

 

Cheryl arched an eyebrow haughtily. “Humph. Right back at you, princess.”  She stomped off without acknowledging Jughead in the least.

 

“Breakfast will be ready in a minute!” Betty cried after her.

 

“Not hungry!”

 

When they heard the door slamming upstairs, Betty tried not to giggle.

 

“I’m sure she ate something,” Jughead said with affected gravity, winking goofily as he did so.

 

She slapped his arm lightly. “Juggie!”

 

“Easy! Coffee’s hot!” he cried, laughing.  “It’s her loss. More for me.”

 

So it was just the two of them for Saturday morning breakfast, which Betty didn’t mind in the least.  It was nice to have Jughead all to herself right now, especially when doing the farm work.  While he never did like the chickens, he seemed to like the goats and llamas and they liked him, nipping at him affectionately as he worked around them.  

 

He carried her baskets when she harvested the vegetables and after lunch, he went with her to the local farmer’s market to get some fresh fruits in her stock.  When they got home, she thought he would do some writing, but instead he sat outside with her on her porch swing, making out with her when they weren’t talking.

 

As the day slowly came to a close, just before she had to start making dinner, she brought him to her loft in the barn. The stunning sunset captivated him, his silence while watching the view giving her an opportunity to admire his profile and realize that she liked their quiet moments so, so much.

 

“This is a great place to sit and think,” she said. “The expanse of the view makes you feel rather small, and it puts a lot of things in perspective. Somehow, my troubles don’t seem so bad.”

 

He nodded. He motioned to say something, but he hesitated and just didn’t go on.

 

“What is it?” she asked, gently.

 

He shook his head. “It’s nothing. I was just--I like being by myself a lot of the time. I need to be, to write. But I like having you around. When I write, I mean. I _can_ write with you around. I told you that you were my muse, and that hasn’t changed, but it feels like an inadequate title in the grand scheme of things. Calling someone a muse feels fanciful, don’t you think? You’re--” He took her hand and kissed it. “You’re real. You’re more than that. You make me listen to my own thoughts. Make what I’m doing now better. It just seems--” He sighed. “I don’t know. Sounds stupid now that I’m saying it.”

 

She tried not to let his words affect her too much. He was rambling and it could just be the musings of a author caught up in the grandeur of the sunset, but she could not help the warmth that spread through her. “It’s not stupid. I’m glad you can write around me, Juggie. I know you talked about having writing spaces and keeping it sacred. That I can be in it--”

 

“You’re more than just in it. It’s like you are.”

 

The enormity of his admission was not lost on her. She moved closer to him and tucked herself into the crook of his arm, partly to get as close to him as possible and partly to avoid staring into his beautiful blue eyes. “Well, then maybe you can finish your book here? Might be a few months, but I’d lo--I’d be happy to have you staying here.”

 

“That would be nice,” he replied, softly, with the slightest hesitation. “Maybe. I’m—I’m a little afraid that you’d find that exhausting.”

 

She felt a brick in her stomach, afraid that he was already trying to make excuses, but she chased those hurtful thoughts away, telling herself that it was her anxiety speaking.

 

 _“_ Betts, you don’t have to keep treating me like a guest,” he said, quietly.

 

“We’re way past that,” she said, chuckling to drown out the insecurities that was trying to overcome her. “That’s been the case since you started helping out at the farm.”

 

He rubbed her back. “That’s for research.”

 

She looked up at him. “Is it? You almost have me convinced that you like it for real and you aren’t just being polite when you say it.”

 

He smirked, averting his gaze bashfully. “Maybe I do like it for real. It’s the truth of the work. Having something done for you to see and touch. Dad had a point, I guess. It’s the Jones in me.”

 

She made circles on his knee with her finger. “You should ask him to come over. Just for dinner, I mean. He’d like that, I’m sure.” She didn’t look at him, then. In ordinary circumstances, she never would’ve suggested a thing. Too presumptuous or too soon; it felt like pressuring him into something more of whatever it is they had now, but she’d always said her home was open to everyone, and she’d already extended that invitation to FP himself. This was just asking for Jughead’s permission to make good on her invitation to FP.

 

“I’m sure. Maybe next week. With dad, taking things slow always works better. The least likely for him to get any hairbrained ideas.” He smirked.

 

She wasn’t sure what Jughead meant about _that,_ either. What ideas did he not want his father to have? But that felt heavy handed, and she didn’t want to ruin the perfectness of this moment.

 

After a while, she told him she had to go fix dinner. When he started to get up, she said he could stay here if he wanted to.

 

“I’ll call you when dinner’s ready,” she said.

 

“Betts, what did I tell you about treating me like a guest?”

 

She chuckled. “ _This_ is not it. Have you not figured out that I love to cook for friends and family? You can pry the kitchen knife from my cold dead hands.”

 

“That is a really macabre image.”

 

She grinned. It was, but those things hardly bothered her. She had that hint of darkness inside her. “Stay if you like. And don’t worry, I’ll disabuse you of the notion that I’m ‘treating you like a guest’ after dinner.” She winked and he blew a breath through his lips.

 

“Promise?”

 

She smirked. “Promise.”

  
  
*******

He watched her flit across the front yard, heading for the house to make dinner. He swallowed as his thoughts and anxieties over her created tension in both his stomach and his pants.

 

“Shit,” he breathed, running a hand down his face.

 

He felt like he had stared off the edge of a cliff and had been a hair’s breadth of jumping it. He had been so close to baring his soul, but he had hesitated and thought better of it.

 

This was not the way he did things. It didn’t make sense to jump into the middle of the ocean without anchoring the boat. It wasn’t a difficult choice.  Logically, you have to make sure you don’t drown.

 

But it was _Betty._ She was his siren and she made him want to say _fuck the boat._

 

He picked up his phone and texted Veronica.

 

Moments later, his phone rang for facetime.

 

He picked it up and fell back against the hay. Her face came into view on his screen and she looked worried. “Hi, V. Why the look?”

 

“You alright, Jug?” she asked. “You never ask me to call unless you’re in trouble.”

 

He frowned. “Is that true? God, I’m a shitty friend.”

 

She sighed. “You aren’t. Tell me what’s going on.”

 

He bit his lip, feeling a blush coming on for what he was about to say. “So there’s this girl…”

 

Veronica looked like she was about to cry, her brows furrowing and her lips pursing, but she also looked happy for him, which was the way Veronica was. She was a sap by nature. “Oh, Jug! I _knew_ you would come to me for this! You’re talking about Betty, right? I take it your date went well?”

 

He gave her a look, like that was the understatement of the year. “It went _really_ well. Like _really._ Well as well could be. The wellest of the well.”

 

Veronica giggled. “That’s fantastic, Jug. What’s the problem, then?”

 

He sighed. “Too well? God, this is stupid.”

 

“Too…?” Veronica gasped. “Jughead, are you in love?”

 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he interrupted quickly. “We’ve gone on one date.”

 

“Jughead. I fell in love with Archie on our first kiss. I married him a week later. Five years later we’re still going strong. You’ve known and lived with this woman for a month now. Don’t tell me you’ve ‘gone on one date’. She had you the moment she answered that door on that fateful rainy night.”

 

“Ronnie, don’t go all Nicholas Sparks on me. This isn’t Two White People on the cover Almost Kissing. We are flesh and blood. And it wasn’t fate. I booked a room at her B&B weeks before!”

 

“And don’t be so defensive. I recognize that your cold dead heart laughs at the romance of life, but you’ve been freaking living in a romance the last four weeks, you goddamn idiot. What the fuck did you expect?”

 

He sighed frustratedly. “Look, I don’t--I’ve had enough shitty things happen in my life to know that it’s the people you love that can hurt you the most. So I should be fucking smarter than this. I should know better by now. You don’t just let people _in.”_

 

Veronica looked like she wanted to reach through the screen and hug him, or strangle him. It was a fine line to tow or cross. “Oh, Jug. If you really thought that, you wouldn’t call Archie your brother and me your sister.”

 

“You guys have been tried and tested through _years_ of my various fuck ups. Years, Ronnie.”

 

Ronnie shook her head. “And if you believe _that,_ then you never would have forgiven your father.”

 

He glared at her a moment, contemplating telling her not to go there, but he could see the earnestness in her eyes and he couldn’t squelch it. “He’s my father. I fucking loved him when he was a deadbeat in jail. I left my own mother for him. It’s almost as if I needed him to work out.”

 

“That’s bullshit, Jughead. You loved him because he tried to be there for you no matter how drunk he was. And you didn’t leave your mother, you wanted to save your father, and you know how I feel about _her._ As happy as I was to have gained a brother, she never should have shut the door on your face like that. I have never forgiven her for being so cold hearted. So no, it isn’t that you needed FP to work out. Just like any person you love, you want for them to get better and do good. Now enough of this. Tell me why it’s so hard for you to let Betty in.”

 

He sighed again, resigned this time. “She was married to this guy.”

 

Veronica’s eyebrow arched. “Divorced?”

 

“Dead. He died two years after he married her. _Two years,_ Ronnie. He died during the best years of their lives. And from what I’ve heard, this guy was great. He loved her like she walked on water, and she loved him. He got them this farm, which she loves, and he was a goddamn cowboy who bred horses and shit. Good looking and educated--got his scholarship playing the football team of Syracuse U. Like, he’s the nuclear bomb of dead spouses. His picture is on her dressing mirror in her room and they look _so goddamn_ happy…”

 

His voice trailed off at this point, pain hitting him in the gut. His hand came up to massage his forehead and he was suddenly exhausted from expending that much emotion in one breath.

 

Veronica blew a breath and her bangs lifted from her eyes. “Yeah, that’s tough.”

 

“Your insight is astounding.”

 

“Don’t be a smartass. How long ago since his death?”

 

“Six years,” Jughead replied, miserably. It seemed like a long time and yet it didn’t.

 

She seemed for a moment quiet, and her eyes took on an emotional sheen. “God, Jug. I can’t pretend I know how _she_ feels, but if it were me--if anything happened to Archie, I’d be fucking lost, and I don’t think I’d ever love anyone ever again.”

 

“Not helping.”

 

She gave him a smirk. “But I’d say that _now._ Life has a way of distracting me and you know I’m good at getting back up when life fucks me over. You know that. As much as I love Archie, I’m just stubborn enough not to let sadness bog me down.”

 

He couldn’t help but give a bitter chuckle. “I don’t know whether to worry about you or Archie.”

 

“Listen, I can’t pretend to have the answers here. Ultimately, you’re the one who has to figure it out, but from everything you've told us about her, she is capable of so much love, Jug. She takes care of her people, the kids who need it most, even people you would normally hate-- _she_ loves. It just seems to me that a person like her has so much love to give, so it’s impossible that she would shut the door on romantic love permanently. Not after she’s had such a great love in the past. If her husband was as good to her as you say he was, she’s not going to settle for casual sexual encounters. She’d want more. She’d want that feeling again and I absolutely believe you can give her that. You’re the kind of guy who loves so goddamn hard it’s scary, even to you.”

 

He ruffled his hair in frustration, his fear and uncertainty still ever present, but Veronica always had a way of digging deep into her own understanding of human nature.

 

Jughead may have a way with words when he probed the dark, psychological recesses of the mind--he needed that to build characters and stories, and Archie had a way with music, finding the things in people’s hearts that needed to be talked about in song, but Veronica had pure, sharpened instinct. She threaded pieces of people together and it made her a master of persuasion. It was how she always got what she wanted and made her millions, after all. She wasn’t a con man. What made her so effective was that she spoke the truth.

 

He mused briefly that this was probably the reason why she and Cheryl respected one another, however brief their interaction. Where Cheryl ruled by fear, Veronica ruled by cunning, and however different their methods, the point is that the whole Knowledge is Power thing for both of them is real.

 

And while Jughead appreciated Cheryl’s explosive truth bombs, he was more attuned to Veronica’s velvet hammer.

 

He cocked a smile gratefully. “You know, I like when you talk to me this way.”

 

“I know you’d be completely lost without me. Now, here’s what I want in return--”

 

“What?”

 

“You thought that shit was free?”

 

Jughead rolled his eyes. “What could I possibly give you that you couldn’t buy yourself? My first born? My soul?”

 

“Oh, quit being dramatic. I want to meet her. I want to know this chick who has you all dazed and confused.”

 

“Is Trula seeing anyone right now? Because unless that’s happening, I’m not setting foot in New York. Worst case scenario, the gossip mags are going to see Betty and think she’s the reason Trula dumped me. I don’t want TMZ labeling her as the ‘other woman.’ Betty is the _only_ woman. Always has and always will be, if I can help it.”

 

Veronica laughed. “It’s still funny that you have to hide from TMZ. You, of all people.”

 

“Yeah, it’s fucking hilarious.”

 

She gave him proper side eye for it. “Archie and I will go _there._ You don’t have to bring her here. And I think it would be better if we met her in her natural surroundings.”

 

“She grew up a rich kid in New York City, you know. She isn’t a country bumpkin.”

 

“Whatever. It’s an easy drive for us.”

 

Jughead frowned. “You’re--you’re not staying here for more than a few hours, are you?”

 

“We’ll book a week!”

 

He groaned and shook his head. “We’ve talked about this!”

 

“It’s _just_ a week,” Veronica said soothingly. “And this is just so we can get to know her. You’re our family, Jug. We want to meet this person, who is clearly special to you. How would you feel if she told you that she doesn’t want her brother and sister to meet you?”

 

“That’s not--” he sighed loudly. “You know it’s different! Betty’s siblings don’t come with an entourage and a shitload of paparazzi. I can’t have this place swarmed by fans. Again, we’ve talked about this!”

 

“I promise, that won’t happen!” Veronica said. “I’ll take every precaution.”

 

“And it’s not just me, Ronnie. It’s Betty. If this place turns into a circus, that could damage things around here and I wouldn’t be able to look her in the eye--”

 

“I totally understand, Jug. I will make sure Archie and I are stupid low key. Nobody will know. We’ll make like Brangelina and no one will know where we are or what we’re doing. I’ll have my crisis management team start on it the moment you say yes. They’ll be on DEFCON 1.”

 

Jughead closed his eyes. Honestly, he wanted Veronica and Archie to meet Betty, but he was a little unsure of the risk. He couldn’t bear the thought of Archie’s fans coming here and trampling on everything.

 

Still. Veronica did know how to get them around without the rest of the world knowing. She’d done it before, and if she has the pros on it, he could breathe easier.

 

 _“Fine.”_ Jughead finally said. “Whatever. But when I’m writing--”

 

“We leave you alone. I know the drill. So are you going to tell her or should I--”

 

“Just email her.” He searched for Betty’s contact info on his phone and sent it by messenger.

 

“Got it, thank you! I am really excited, Jug. And Archie and I miss you like crazy. You’ve never been gone this long and I absolutely fear that you will never return to us.”

 

“It’s only 70 miles out of the city, you know. You can even take a bus to it.”

 

“Ugh! As if!”

 

He smirked. “I realize bus is a dirty word for you, but I had a flashback of 90s teen movies just now and that is never a good thing.”

 

“I’ll see you soon, Jug. Archie will be stoked to hear about this trip.”

 

“I’m sure he’ll let me know that. Bye, V.”

 

“Bye, JJ.”

 

Their call ended and Jughead fell back on the soft hay. He stayed there awhile, trying to uncoil the tension in his belly.

 

Three minutes later, Archie’s text came, telling him they were going to party like it was 1985. Jughead quickly nipped that in the bud with an ABSOLUTELY NO PARTIES ON THE FARM rule.

 

Archie then went on to call him, and Jughead had to make Archie promise that he was not going to bring the media down upon them while he and Veronica were there.

 

“Arch, I’m serious,” Jughead said. “If you want to party, you go _to it._ Don’t bring it here. I swear, if you do, I will end you.”

 

“End me?”

 

“End you. This woman is important to me. If you screw this up for me….”

 

“Okay, okay. I get it! Now I really got to meet this chick.”

 

Jughead closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and said, “I’m crazy about her.”

 

“I’ve been waiting my entire life to hear you say that, dude.”

 

Sometimes, Jughead couldn’t tell when Archie was joking.

 

Another text came in and it was Betty, telling him that dinner was ready. He told Archie he had to go and they said their goodbyes.

 

Cheryl was at the dinner table with them this time, and as vicious as she was, Jughead had miraculously learned to like her. Of her own merits. Not just because Betty seemed to have a tender affection for her.

 

After dinner, they retired to their rooms and Betty made good on her promise.

 

She knocked on his door, he opened it, and he had her in his arms, tongues tangling, hands moving, limbs and bodies crashing, and breaths mingling with whispered overtures of longing and need.

 

When they fell on the bed, naked in one another’s arms, it was a torrid worship with hands, lips, and bodies.  And whatever worries Jughead had about where his feelings were going, Betty blissfully chased them away, at least in that moment where he could think only of her pleasure and his.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said that this fic will have smut, half of them pointless? I think maybe smut in general may be pointless, but these characters are just so hot that I feel it a little criminal not to go _there_ , so this trend will continue throughout the fic. I might even make ya'll blush. How about that?


	8. Distressed Wood is my Aesthetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kevin was scowling now. “Betty, Trevor’s been gone six years now. You’ve done your spousal duty to mourn him and I know what you’re feeling isn’t heartbreak anymore. God Forbid, it’s some of that Alice Cooper neurotic obligation shit she’s bred into you. I think you told me once that Alice thought seven years was an appropriate time to mourn a husband. You’re not actually thinking about that, are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends, this is going to be a bit hotter than the last one.

_ Excerpt from  _ **_Harvest to Home_ ** **,** **_Distressed Wood is My Aesthetic_ **

 

_ “All distressed wood are not created equal. There is wood that is actually old and worn by weather and time, and there is new wood made to look distressed by various implements. I am not partial to one or the other. It absolutely depends on what you want your design to look like and what it’s for. I’ve used the worst distressed wood as accents to an otherwise boring wall decor, but I’ve certainly preferred artfully distressed wood for my kitchen chair and table, as it would distress  _ me  _ if I or any of my guests have to pick splinters from their bodies because I was silly enough to use an rickety old chair. _

 

_ My island counter top is a block of beautifully distressed wood, a customized piece constructed from the top of an old, heirloom table, but sanded, treated, and cured to rid it of the fray on its edges, to preserve its integrity, and to keep its distinct, country crafted charm...” _

 

_ \--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast _

  
  
  


The words were flowing from his fingers. He was three thousand words in and he wasn’t stopping. He had refilled his cup of coffee three times and it was only 2 PM. 

 

He had skipped lunch with the girls inadvertently, having said he would “be there in a minute” only to find Betty by his side, an hour later, with a bowl of Korean Beef stew, just for him.

 

He had looked at her apologetically, rubbing her arm as he took the bowl. “I’m sorry. I forgot the time. I’m just on a roll and it happens sometimes.”

 

She waved his apologies away. “I get it. It’s why I didn’t pester you. But here. Have some while you write. Do you know how to use chopsticks? I’ve got a spoon here for the soup, too.”

 

“Yeah,” he replied, giving her a small smile. “Thank you. You really shouldn’t have fixed me a bowl. I’m the douche who missed lunch.”

 

She chuckled. “You are not and never will be a douche, Jughead. And I wanted you to have some. Also, you’ve had way too much coffee.”

 

“Three cups is nothing. Five is when it starts to get dicey for me,” he said, picking up his spoon from the tray and trying the soup, which was, of course, delicious and spicy. 

 

Betty started to get up. “I’ll leave you to it.”

 

He held her hand. “No, stay. I get this way when I go on a writing binge. I forget to do basic stuff like eat, sleep, walk, talk--it’s good to have a break. Better for my writing.”

 

“And your health,” she added. “How about I fix you a nice smoothie later? In lieu of coffee.”

 

He made a face and didn’t even say anything. She laughed. “Kidding. Or maybe not. Had to try.”

 

“Coffee is a health drink,” he said, trying the noodles in the bowl of Korean soup. He was hungrier than he thought and he was probably going inside for seconds. 

 

She leaned back on the seat and put her feet up on the nearby wicker chair. “I love Sundays on the farm. The chickens and goats still need to get fed, but nothing else has to get done. I can just sit around and do nothing. Usually I do other projects here and there, but there’s nothing today.”

 

Jughead loved Sundays at the farm, too. He liked seeing her so relaxed, with her hair down, her sundresses, and her flip flops. She looked like she was ready to run barefoot in a field of flowers. 

 

“Sundays in the City for me, particularly in the summer, is going to food fairs,” he said, grinning. “I eat my way through the trucks and then I buy something for someone--scarf, t-shirt, faux African art…”

 

“Who do you send the faux African art to?”

 

“Mostly Archie. Drives Veronica crazy.”

 

She laughed, playing idly with the curls of his hair on his nape. 

 

“I usually end the day playing chess with the old folks in Bryant Park. Most of the time my ass gets kicked but every once in awhile I win a game.”

 

She smirked. “I have a board. We can do that later. I’m not terrible at it.”

 

He smirked and rubbed her thigh lightly. “Usually there’s a wager…”

 

“Well, I know what I want if I win,” she said, her eyes leaving no doubt to her intentions.

 

“We should probably just toss the game and pretend we both won.”

 

Grinning, she leaned over to hug his arm and lean her head on his shoulder. “Maybe not chess, then. Netflix? We’ll invite Cheryl to watch with us. Something scandalous, like How to Get Away With Murder.”

 

“I thought we agreed not to encourage her impulses?”

 

“Stop. You love her. I know you do.”

 

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

 

She pecked a kiss on his lips. “Finish your lunch and get back to your writing. I wanted to finish your second book anyway. It’s even better than the first.”

 

“You trying to butter me up, Betts? It’s working.”

 

She chuckled and got up, leaving him to his work and what little lunch he had left in his bowl.

 

He did go for seconds and he did go back to work. He wrote a few thousand more words and he figured that by tomorrow, he’d have enough chapters to send to his editor. Shock was imminent since he’d never finished so much in such a short time.

 

Sometime late in the afternoon, Cheryl stomped out of the house dressed in a tight black dress, mile high heels, and some kind of body glitter.

 

“You going to church, Red?” Jughead teased as she walked by.

 

Cheryl didn’t flinch at the nickname. In fact, she seemed to like it. “There will be kneeling involved, for sure. God’s name will probably be invoked. You and I both know the drill. At least I hope you do. For Betty’s sake.”

 

Why does he never learn not to go head to head with Cheryl Blossom? He should know by now that unless he’s willing to plunge himself into the depths of hell, he will never win with her.

 

“Why don’t you go ask her?” he drawled, hating himself for it a second later. “Ugh, you’re a little shit, Cher.”

 

She waved over her shoulder at him with her $10,000 purse and an evil grin. “Tell Betty not to wait up!”

 

“We’re only one phone call away if you need anything. Be safe and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, young lady.”

 

“God, you’re such a daddy, Jonesy. And I mean that in the worse way!” she yelled as she got into her sportscar.

 

Cheryl left with dust clouding the air.

 

Jughead smirked and realized he  _ did  _ have an inexplicable affection for the She Devil.

 

It was around five when Betty emerged from the house again, made a motion to speak to him, then didn’t, turning away to go back in the house.

 

He wasn’t going to let her go like that. “Whoa, hey. You were going to say something. What is it?”

 

She seemed slightly uncertain, but she didn’t resist. “I got an email from Veronica Lodge-Andrews inquiring about a booking for two starting Tuesday to next week.”

 

Jughead was mildly surprised by Veronica’s expediency, not that she wasn’t capable of it, but a two-day turnaround to go where he was was disconcertedly quick. 

 

Betty went on. “She also wants me to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement.”

 

What to unpack, first?

 

“I’m assuming it’s her and her husband,” Betty said. “I know you mentioned that you’d prefer they  _ weren’t-- _ erm,  _ here--” _

 

Jughead sighed quietly but did begin with a very mild, embarrassed tone. “First, I have absolutely no right to tell you who you should host. This is your B&B, Betts.”

 

“Yes, but you’re  _ my  _ guest first. I can turn away others in favor of the people in my care.”

 

He did not dwell on the fact that she called  _ him  _ a guest, focusing instead on “people in my care.”  He shook his head slightly. “I am completely fine with it. Veronica asked me first and I told her it was okay.”

 

She looked slightly relieved. “Okay. The NDA, though…?”

 

Jughead gave her a sheepish look. “Kind of my fault. I made Veronica promise that she will do everything to ensure that none of the madness that usually comes with Archie follows him here. She trusts you not to say anything, but the people she hired to keep this secret doesn’t know who you are. They like to have signed things.”

 

She looked surprised. “Oh.”

 

“Sorry. It’s stupid, I know.”

 

“It’s not,” she said, sounding a little winded. “I have never hosted a celebrity of Archie Andrews’ magnitude before. I have no idea what that means. Mom’s a news anchor in a major station, but she really only gets recognized every once in awhile, and her fans are pretty regular folks. Nobody ever tried anything weird to talk to her.”

 

He shot her an ominous glance. “Trust me when I say you don’t want the world knowing where Archie Andrews is vacationing. He brings madness and chaos--fans, paparazzi, and they won’t care how beautiful this place is. The fans don’t mean any harm most of the time, but they get--” he searched for the word “--excited. The paparazzi won’t destroy anything, but they are vultures. So I told Ronnie that she had to make sure none of that followed them. I would be terribly upset if it did.”

 

She looked thoughtful. “Interesting. Cheryl has her own level of fame, too, but more of the Sheryl Sandberg variety, so her fans are more, I would say, professional. So she never had to worry about that stuff. Even Polly and Jason never had to think about fame. They’ve been featured in the business section of the New York Times and their house was in a magazine, once, but nothing like--”

 

“Impromptu mosh pits and half-naked crazy people blaring music from loudspeakers?”

 

Betty made a face.

 

Jughead nodded. “Yeah. I’ve seen it. It’s why I get so prissy about sharing my writing spaces with them.”

 

She looked a little struck, like his words meant something. “Oh. Is that--okay, that makes sense.”

 

“What makes sense?”

 

“You not wanting them to come here. I just--” her face reddened. “I thought it was more a writer quirk.”

 

He was surprised by her assumption and chuckled. “Do I look like I have writer quirks?”

 

She shrugged, hand splayed. “I don’t know. I just thought you NYT bestseller guys all had them.”

 

He threw his head back and covered his face, embarrassed at the mere thought that she even thought he had those stupid, douchebag eccentricities. He stood and went to her, scooping her by her waist. “If I ever,  _ ever  _ act like a fucking douchebag, please slap me and then tell me.”

 

She laughed and slipped her arms over his shoulders. “Juggie… I respect what you do. I respect how you do it. I won’t judge you for whatever you need to do to write.”

 

Just for that he kissed her soundly. “God, what did I do to deserve you?”

 

She smiled into the kiss. “I mean I… I thought you just wanted to keep me,  _ this farm _ , separate, you know? From your real life…”

 

He pulled back, looking at her. He was shocked by her wording. “Real life? This is my real life.” He didn’t know why, but a mild panic was rising in his chest.

 

She blinked, probably noting the change in his mood. “I meant… like, your life in the city. You came here to research, write your book. I wasn’t expecting… okay, look. We don’t have to talk about this now.”

 

He shook his head and held her in place. “No, I want to talk about this. Do you think of me as  _ temporary?” _

 

She looked scared and he had no idea why. “I… Juggie.”

 

“Tell me,” he insisted. 

 

She shook her head. “I don’t want it to be,” she said slowly. “But things tend to be. For me. People come and then they  _ leave,  _ Jug. Nobody  _ stays.” _ And there it was. Her heartbreak. He could see her eyes watering and she furiously tried to blink them dry “There is  _ nothing  _ in this place, except  _ me.  _ And I can only give so much, and I really don’t mind people coming and going because that’s what this business is about, but I’ve never--” she swallowed, gesturing between him and her, “--had  _ this.  _ I didn’t want to complicate anything but I guess these things just happen.” She wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry I laid all that on you, but I’ve always been a bad liar so there was really no point in--”

 

He kissed her. His heart was bursting and he couldn’t take her tears. He couldn’t let her prolong that sadness. Those lonesome, selfless thoughts.

 

Veronica was right. Betty had so much to give and no one ever asked what Betty wanted. She always seemed so strong and self-assured, so seeing her vulnerable was completely disarming. 

 

She made a sound of approval and he breathed into her, his hands sliding down her body to wrap his arms around her waist, pulling her closer.

 

She said his name in a breathless whisper.

 

“I’m not going anywhere, Betts,” he said in her ear.

 

She sighed. “Don’t,” she moaned. “Don’t say what you don’t mean.”

 

It pained him to think that she’d been bracing herself this entire time. Preparing herself for some heartbreak he never thought of inflicting on her. 

 

“I don’t want to leave you,” he said, pulling back to look into her eyes. “I want to  _ stay.” _

 

And maybe he wasn’t saying exactly that he wanted to live here forever, because that would be a little absurd this early on, but she knew what he meant by  _ stay.  _ He wanted to use her words to tell her that  _ this  _ meant something to him. Something  _ not  _ temporary.

 

“Whether or not I need to live in the city again, I want to keep being  _ with  _ you,” he said, quietly. 

 

She looked back, her gaze searching and hopeful. “Really? Because I would like that,” she said quietly. “A lot.”

 

He felt some of the uncertainties he had in this new relationship loosen and wash away. At the moment, it was enough to know that she didn’t just think of him as some passing traveler--some guy on a business trip. 

 

There were still many things to talk about, still many things he was scared to bring up, but at least  _ now  _ he knew they can  _ begin. _

 

“Betts,” he replied, quietly, grinning lightly. “You made a morning person out of me. 29 years of waking up, sometimes in places where people weren’t meant to sleep at all, and I never woke up earlier than I  _ had  _ to. But here I am, getting up to feed the chickens, and you know I don’t like them.”

 

She looked like she was going to laugh. Instead she bit her lower lip, the corner of her lip lifting. “It wasn’t hard. Cook a mean breakfast and you’ve got Jughead Jones in the palm of your hand.”

 

He smirked and took her hand, kissing it tenderly. “You know I like my food.” And for a moment, he must have looked at her different when he said that, because she blushed and buried her face against his chest, giggling softly.

 

He didn’t take it back, thrilled at the idea that she could laugh at his innuendos and giggle during their most intimate moments. It felt right. It felt like being with someone special.

 

He pressed his lips upon hers again.. 

 

Kissing Betty always felt like putting a flint to kindling. There would always be sparks setting a fire, but where the earlier kiss was a comforting warmth, this fire was starting to blaze. 

 

Her face cradled in his hands, he tilted her chin up with his thumb so he can deepen the kiss, lips upon lips while he dipped his tongue to touch hers. She gave a soft whine as she responded, rising up on her toes so she could curl her arms around his shoulders to pull him closer. 

 

_ This  _ was getting intense and he needed to take her inside. 

 

He lifted her in his arms and she gave a yelp of delight. He brought them into the house and  slammed the front door shut with his foot. He went straight for the kitchen, putting her up on the island and pressing his open mouth against her throat.

 

She gasped, running her fingers through his hair and lifting her knees to pull him flush against his body.

 

He was rock solid and she surely felt it through the soft material of her panties. He hooked his hands behind her knees to hold her firm and rocked his hips against her.

 

She moaned and kissed him, her tongue pushing against his within the press of their mouths.

 

They would just have to worry about cleaning this island later. Right now, his desire was raging and it wanted  _ this  _ fantasy to come true. 

 

The thought of doing her on this kitchen counter had occurred to him so many times in the past that if he let himself, it could be over in 5 minutes, but he was determined to draw this out. It was  _ happening,  _ and he’ll be damned if he let the practical considerations of reality dampen the experience. He wanted this to be epic for both him and her.

 

“Juggie,” she whispered heatedly. “I’ve dreamt about this so many times.”

 

“Baby,” he groaned, even more turned on by the thought that he wasn’t the only one. “I’ve wanted to. You know I have.”

 

The kitchen. A sacred place where she made magical things and he tasted them, where he’d first seen her dance and, quite possibly, fell in love with her, where she blossomed and made people happy and him want her desperately--the kitchen, for him, was his meccha and she was the goddess he worshipped.

 

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” he promised. 

 

He kissed her deeply and slowly, holding her face in his hands as he pressed his body between her legs. She groaned, telling him she wanted him. She reached for the buttons of his pants but he pulled back, lowering his hands to her thighs and reaching for her panties to tug them off her.

 

“Up, baby,” he said, which prompted her to lift her hips so he can pull off her panties.

 

He kissed her gratefully and grazed his fingers against the bundle of nerves between her legs. 

 

She whined at his touch and he dipped his fingers inside her, gently. She gasped into his mouth and he kept touching her where she needed him most.

 

Her breathing had gone heavy and she was pressing against his hand, her hips moving for more friction. 

 

“Jug,” she gasped, throwing her head back in a loud moan.

 

He captured her lips with his and dipped his tongue inside her mouth while he curled his fingers inside her. He felt her clench and her hips gave a jerk. She cried out against his mouth and she came, riding it out as he smiled lazily, drunk with satisfaction.

 

She leaned over to kiss him and presumably wipe the grin from off his face. But then she took the hand that made her come and sucked his fingers into her mouth.

 

He was hypnotized.  _ “Fuck…” _

 

She licked her lips and said, “Yes, please,” in the most impossibly demure way.

 

Captivated, he pushed her further into the kitchen island and gently on her back. She watched him with her curious, lust-darkened eyes and he grinned, hitching her legs over his shoulders.  “Dessert, first.”

 

And he went down on her.

 

*********

 

The moment he said “dessert,” she knew he wasn’t going to have to work hard for it.

 

She plunged her fingers into his hair of luscious dark curls as she felt his mouth and tongue on her. She canted her hips up at him unbidden, and she cried out breathlessly that this was going to make her come. On her kitchen island. A fantasy she had  _ never  _ been able to act out until now.

 

His hands wrapped around her thighs, and while his lips and tongue made circles in all the right spots at her center, she began to see stars and felt the rapid rise and fall of her breathing.

 

She was close. When his fingers dipped into her, accompanied by his tongue, she was gone, coming loudly and intensely. 

 

For a moment, her mind was in a haze as she coasted that high, but she slowly came back to her senses and only then did she realize Jughead was watching her, again with that fascinated look on his face, as if watching her come undone was beautiful to him. 

 

She smiled at him as she caught her breath. “Oh, Jughead…”

 

“Baby, I need you,” he said in a lust roughened voice. His lips descended upon her navel and started to work his way up, pushing her sundress up as he went. 

 

She pushed herself up to a sitting position and pulled her dress up overhead. He took off her bra with a deft twist of his fingers and palmed her breasts as he took each peak in his mouth. 

 

The ache between her legs was intense, and as pleasurable as his mouth on her was, she moaned that she wanted him inside her. Badly.

 

He tilted her chin up and kissed her, tongue sweeping into her mouth. She bit his lip gently and he groaned as he pulled away to undress. He apparently kept condoms in his back pocket, because he took out a couple of them and dropped it on the counter before he began to grab the edges of his shirt.

 

He peeled his shirt off as she worked on unbuckling his pants. And for a while, he just watched her undo his belt, buttons, and zipper.

 

She was aware that she was fully naked, legs spread, hair down her back, and she felt absolutely and utterly sexy, feeling no self-consciousness whatsoever.

 

His eyes raked over her nakedness and instead of making her shy, she felt empowered by it.

 

“What’s the matter, Jones?” she teased in a smoky tone. “Never seen a naked woman before?”

 

“You are all of my sex fantasies right now,” he said, honestly. “You have  _ no idea…” _

 

She smiled up at him as she pushed down his pants and boxers to free him. She unwrapped a condom from its packet, pumped him a couple of times for no other reason but to drive him crazy, and rolled the condom over his rock hard cock. His tortured groan filled her with confidence and she leaned back on her hands on the island top, trailing her foot down to his navel.  “This better be one for the record books _ ,”  _ she told him in a softly challenging tone, surprising even herself. She had never said and done these things to any of her lovers in the past. Not even Trev. This was absolutely new territory for her, but with Jughead, she felt bold and free. She felt no fear with him.

 

Jughead grabbed her almost roughly by the back of her knees and dragged her to him, sliding right into her as he capped his mouth over her shoulders and began to suck hickeys into her skin.

 

He drove hard into her, and she cried her approval, moving her hips against him. She locked her arms over his shoulders for more leverage and he sank his fingers into her thighs to pull her even closer. He braced himself against the counter with one hand, and both the pressure and rhythm felt fantastic.

 

She gasped his name, telling him how good it felt while he panted against her ear, his hips moving vigorously to meet hers without pause. He told her right back that it was just as good for him, that it was so goddamn hot. He kissed her, tongues tangling, drowning any other words that they could have spoken.

 

She wasn’t going to last long.  She came, locking herself around him as she rocked her hips in a torrid roll. The intense orgasm blanked her senses for a few seconds, her eyes rolling to the back of her head. She had never been so loud.

 

She was barely down from her high when he pulled out of her, yanked her off the counter and turned her around. He bent her over the counter and she grabbed the edges of it. Poised to take him that way because she had wanted it.

 

He paused, his breathing ragged but his grip sinking into the skin of her hips. “Oh, God, I am such a fucking animal. Is this ok--”

 

“Oh, my God, Juggie, don’t you dare stop now.”

 

That did it. His groan of surrender had him going, hard and fast. She was screaming  _ yes,  _ and he was nailing her from behind, one hand on her breast and the other circling her clit.

 

It didn’t take much longer for both of them. They came together. Intensely. Betty couldn’t believe it was happening, because it felt phenomenal.

 

As she came down from her orgasm, she felt warm lips trailing down her back, followed by the blanket of his body. She could feel him catching his breath, his hands braced against her sides tenderly, in complete contrast to their rough lovemaking just seconds before.

 

She closed her eyes and enjoyed the closeness, realizing in no small way that despite the intensely sexual way they came together, bodies crashing and profanities flying, she still called it lovemaking in her head. 

 

She had many,  _ many  _ questions for herself regarding her feelings for Jughead Jones, and she didn’t know if she was ready to talk about them.

 

At the moment, however, she had just had the best sex of her life and she wanted to enjoy it.

 

Jughead pulled away with a sigh and swiftly righted himself, throwing away the condom. She grabbed the nearest article of clothing, which was his shirt. Her dress was just as near, but she didn’t want him to put his shirt back on quite yet. He looked so good with his jeans hanging low on his hips and she wanted to enjoy the view.

 

He grinned, seeing right through her. She winked at him coquettishly and he took her in his arms, scooping her in a damsel carry.

 

She laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Are you sure you can handle carrying me up the stairs? I’m no pixie.”

 

“Fuck, yeah! Right now, I feel like I’m Dwayne fucking Johnson.”

 

She giggled and let him figure this out. He did pretty well the first flight. He went a little slower in the second flight.

 

“Okay, so a little less like Dwayne Johnson,” he huffed, kicking the door to his room open.

 

She shrieked as he dumped her unceremoniously on his bed, laughing hysterically as he folded over and then collapsed on the mattress.

 

“I guess I’m going to have to start skipping those donuts,” she joked.

 

“Don’t you dare, Betty Cooper!” he says, rising up to crawl to her side. He slapped her ass playfully.  _ “This  _ is what I live for.”

 

She didn’t think she had ever gotten a compliment she loved as much as what he just gave her. She smiled at him covetously and dragged him down to kiss him.

 

He half-draped himself on her as he nursed her mouth with his, his tongue dipping in and out to lightly massage hers. 

 

She hummed her approval and enjoyed the intimacy until they had to catch their breaths. “You know just what to say to me, Jughead Jones.”

 

“It’s just me telling you how I feel,” he said, pushing hair off her forehead. 

 

She ran her hand up his arm, amazed at how attached she was so quickly to a man she’d only known a few weeks. 

 

Was it just his looks? For certain, he was handsome. Gorgeous. And she couldn’t get enough from just looking at him. She touched his face, admiring the structure of his bones and loving the color of his eyes. 

 

He had that demeanor, as well, of a guy who didn’t quite give a shit about his looks, or what other people said about the way he should dress or how to carry himself. That sexy sidelong look and that tilt of his chin when he was grinning a “Fuck off!” instead of saying it--it drove her crazy.

 

And yet he did care. He cared about doing a good job around the farm. He cared about the people around him--his father, Kevin, Farmer John, and even Cheryl. He cared about the kids, so good with them and their questions, and yes, he cared about her, too. Whether it was a sense of friendship or something far more, she felt him care. And yes, maybe that made her care for him, too. 

 

And then there was that brain of his, manifested in his books. With those words he puts to paper, strung into lovely sentences that make compelling, riveting stories, or even just the way he expresses himself when he’s being sarcastic or silly. He could be saying the simplest things--in fact, he didn’t spout off intellectual bullshit like a special snowflake. He kept it simple, straightforward, and sardonic, and yet she could tell that there was a storm behind his eyes, like he had pruned his words down to their essence, because putting all of it out there could blow people away like a hurricane. 

 

In his books, that hurricane was unleashed, and it was brilliant. It bent everyone to his will. No wonder his books held steady in the  _ Times _ . His words would resonate forever.

 

Did he make stories in his head for everyone? What was the story for  _ her? _

 

The corner of his lips lifted. “What?”

 

“Just…” she breathed, uncertain about how much she wanted to say to him. “I am so very drawn to you, it’s crazy. I’ve--” she paused for a heartbeat “--never felt like this before.”

 

The word slipped before she could think of it.  _ Never.  _

 

Something in his eyes flickered, like hope, actually. And he smiled as he hovered over her. “Never?”

 

And she knew it to be true.  _ Never.  _ Not even with Trev. She had loved her husband passionately, but she and Trev had been fairly independent of one another. It was a comfortable feeling, knowing that one had the other’s back, assured of the other’s support if needed, but they did things on their own, loved each other for their differences more than their similarities, and that was so because that way they fit. They were compatible.

 

But with Jughead, she felt connected to him, felt that pull to touch, to talk, to eat and be together. Their common interests were binding--he ate, she cooked; he knew fiction and she loved reading it; she made things, he wrote them down; she embraced life and he learned from it. Their differences brought stimulation and excitement instead of strain--she danced, he didn’t; but he liked how  _ she  _ danced. She didn’t like watching people fight professionally, he trained with them, but it made him athletic and strong, which turned her on, in spite of herself. He hated those chickens, which was totally understandable. He smoked and she didn’t. Generally, she wished he wouldn’t for the sake of his health, but damn if he didn’t look sexy when he lit up, the cigarette bobbing between his lips as he spoke because his hands were too busy to hold it, or when he smoked between writing, his brain spent and eyes filling with thoughts that he had left behind for the writing he had to do.

 

She had never felt like this for anyone and it was making her both anxious and excited--happy, and yet…

 

“Never,” she whispered, playing with some of the hair that had fallen over his eyes.

 

She could see it, then, that overwhelming intelligence, and he knew without even her explaining, exactly what she meant. 

 

He kissed her, his lips moving to a slow, languorous rhythm. His tongue parted her lips and she moaned as the fire in her belly started anew.

 

She thought briefly that he couldn’t possibly be ready to have sex again in so short a time, but as if sensing her doubt, he ground his hips against her thigh and she felt the evidence of his desire.

 

She giggled, softly. “What happened to ‘I’m not sixteen anymore?’”

 

“Baby, you just know what to say to me,” he said, mirroring her own words in a voice rough with arousal. “Take off my pants.”

 

She did, undoing his buttons and pushing his pants off with her feet. This was a slow burn, but a deep one. Starting with languid kisses, whispered words of encouragement, and tender, sweet admiration. His hands were gentle, sliding, squeezing, and tweaking, just enough for her to be pliant under him and beg him for more.

 

When he slipped into her, his mouth hardly left hers, open lips brushing even when they weren’t kissing. His hips rocking slowly and steadily, his hand cupping her thigh to keep her wedged around him. She moved with him, loving this closeness, his chest rubbing against hers, his body flush between her legs. It felt intensely intimate.

 

“Betts,” he whispered against her mouth. “This feels so good.”

 

She nodded, eyes fluttering closed as she felt that all too wonderful glimmer of her orgasm beginning.  “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

 

“I’m going to come soon, baby,” he said in a tortured voice. He kissed her, groaning into her mouth as he began to move faster.

 

The friction became unbearable and she came with a cry, clenching around him and canting her hips to press him deeper into her. Her orgasm rising above her, then begin to ebb away in blessed completion.

 

“Betts,” he whispered, urgently, as his hips met hers once, then twice. “Fuck, baby…” He pulled out, pumping outside of her as he spilled on her belly with a deep, guttural groan. 

 

He felt warm and she felt _ his _ . It was primal and real. 

 

When he was done, he sighed and closed his eyes, kissing her neck. He reached for the tissues to help clean her up and then when all was tidied, she nestled herself in his chest, kissing the skin there in tender appreciation. 

 

He kissed the top of her head, wrapping his arm around her with a sigh. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get enough of you.”

 

She smiled and burrowed even closer, purring happily at his words. “Keep doing what you’re doing and I’ll always be happy to oblige.”

 

He chuckled, rubbing her back. 

 

They settled into sleepy hushed tones, drifting slowly and quietly into sated slumber.

  
  


**************

 

The next couple of days, Jughead watched Betty preparing for Archie and Veronica’s arrival. It wasn’t a flurry of activity, as he had expected. It was Betty making lists for what dishes she’ll be serving, and Betty, getting a cleaning lady to freshen up the rooms, drapes, and some areas of the house needing dusting. It was also Betty (and him) cleaning the island counter with more than a few Clorox Wipes (maybe more than once) while exchanging sheepish smiles. And finally it was Betty, sitting at her office desk, making notes on her pad and doing research about both Archie and Veronica.

 

“You can ask me about them, you know,” he said, leaning against the frame of her office door, arms and ankles crossed. “Most of the things about Archie online are likely to be only half true.”

 

She took her glasses off and folded her arms over the table. “You do know that Archie’s personal assistant sent me a rider for him, right?”

 

“I think I tasted vomit in my mouth just now. Give it here and let me take a look.”

 

He sat across from her on the desk as she handed the sheet over. Betty had check marks beside the things she presumably had or could provide. The others, like Orange Bean Bag and a Marshall AS50D acoustic guitar amplifier, were crossed out.

 

She sighed. “How am I going to tell a rockstar that I can’t possibly give him most of these things?”

 

“Okay, stop,” Jughead said, putting his hands up to quiet her. He took the sheet and held it up. “See this?” He crumpled it and threw it in the trash. 

 

“Juggie,” she said in a gently chiding tone. “I have that file in my laptop.”

 

“It doesn’t matter. It’s ridiculous,” he said, taking out his phone to call Archie. 

 

Betty motioned to protest but Jughead went to her, rubbed her shoulder gently and gestured to give him a moment.

 

Archie picked up immediately. “Hey, Jug! Can’t wait to see you tomorrow! Veronica and--”

 

“Arch, what the fuck? You sent Betty a  _ rider?  _ Are you fucking kidding me?”

 

“Jug, I would never send Betty a rider!  _ I  _ sent it, she said? Ronnie, was I drunk last night?”

 

Jughead could hear Veronica’s voice in the background, and then it was her on the line.

 

“Archie didn’t send a rider. He hardly knows he has one. It had to be his assistant. Ignore it!”

 

Jughead sighed.  _ “Ronnie.” _

 

“Jughead,”  Veronica replied, her tone expectant.

 

“I thought you said DEFCON 1.”

 

“It still is,” she said soothingly. “Nobody knows where we’ll be staying--except maybe for our personal assistants, who are paid a fuck load of money to be quiet about it. Ginger’s just eager to please. Please tell Betty that I apologize for causing her any inconvenience.”

 

“And what is she supposed to do with the ten gallons of petroleum jelly sitting on her kitchen counter?”

 

“What!”

 

“Kidding.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“No more riders.”

 

“Never should’ve happened in the first place. We’ll see you tomorrow, Jug!”

 

“See ya.”  He switched off his phone and sat back down.

 

Betty was looking at him askance. 

 

“He didn’t send it. He didn’t want any of those things in the first place,” he said. “Problem solved.”

 

“On a scale of one to ten, with ten being What the Hell Did I Get Myself Into? What kind of chaos should I be expecting?”

 

He looked at her sheepishly. “If this goes as well as Veronica said it should, I’d say 5. Archie and Veronica alone are kinda chaotic. Veronica is a tiny tornado and Archie thinks anything could be made into a party, but they’re not bringing an entourage so there’s not much they could do with a classy chick like you and a grump like me.”

 

She nodded, calmly, putting her glasses back on. “I can handle 5.” She turned back to her computer, typing something on a spreadsheet.

 

He smirked, leaning back on his seat with his long legs sprawled in front of him. “You look sexy in those glasses.”

 

She shot him a gently warning look, though her lips were fighting a smile. “I need to get this done, Juggie. Don’t start.”

 

“I’m not starting anything,” he said mildly. “Just admiring what I see.”

 

Which was kind of a lie, of course. He didn’t quite have a moral threshold for what he  _ wasn’t  _ willing to say or do to get Betty to have sex with him. Time and place didn’t bother him quite as much as it used to, either. He didn’t know if it was because they were in a relatively secluded farm or because she just made him that horny.

 

She stopped typing and turned in her seat. “In any case, if we  _ do  _ have sex in this office, try not to knock over my computer. It is the only one I have.”

 

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he said, leaning over the desk to reach across it to get to her, his brain already working out the logistics of the  _ how. _

 

But they were interrupted by Cheryl and Kevin, which was probably just as well. 

 

“So this NDA that we have to sign,” Kevin said. “If we don’t sign it, they can’t sue us, right?”

 

Betty shot him a glare. “If you don’t sign it, they will cancel their trip and not come here.”

 

Kevin pouted. “Shit fucking shit. Fine.”

 

Cheryl’s complaint was different. “I take umbrage at being made to sign this document. I am a  _ guest  _ and a  _ Blossom.  _ I’m not some two-bit plebe who shops at StockMart, taking selfies with cardboard celebrities. I walk down red carpets canoodling with these fuckers. I  _ give money  _ to filmmakers to create their shit indie films! Do your friends know who the fuck I am?”

 

Jughead assumed her attention had gone from Betty to him, and honestly, he didn’t know what to say, not because he wasn’t used to seeing celebrity fits. He’d been around a ton of them since Archie became stupid famous and he started dating, and broke up with, Trula, but he never ventured to appease them. It was just never worth the effort.

 

Betty sighed. “Cher, sign it, don’t sign it. I don’t give a shit. I can’t force you to do anything. If you don’t sign it, they don’t come here. Then we’re all miserable and you’re happy. Good news is that nobody dies. Your choice.”

 

_ And that _ , Jughead thought,  _ is how you appeal to Cheryl Blossom’s better nature: give her the power. _

 

Cheryl scowled. “I really should just say fuck it and punish you all for making me do this.”

 

“Punish away,” Betty said tiredly. “At the end of the day, it’s not worth strangling you for it.”

 

“But you’ll hate me.”

 

Betty shrugged, a resigned look on her face. “For a  _ while _ , yeah. But I forgave Polly for getting me thrown in jail. I’ll forgive you for this one.”

 

Cheryl took a deep breath before giving a loud growl.  _ “Fine.  _ I’ll sign it. I hope you realize that I only do this sort of shit for  _ you _ , Betty. Because you’re attractive and talented as fuck. And because  _ you  _ love  _ me _ . If you were ugly and stupid, I wouldn’t even breathe in your general direction from a 100 miles away.”

 

Betty made a gesture indicating that she knew all that already. “Yes, I understand all that. Thank you, Cheryl.”

 

Cheryl tapped on her phone for a few seconds and then said, “There, it’s done. Sent and delivered.”

 

“Mine, too,” Kevin said, still pouting. “Did Farmer John--”

 

“Did his this morning.”

 

“Ugh, what a nerd.”

 

Cheryl glared at Jughead. “I hope you know that I did it for Betty, not you, but it helps that you meet my standards of beauty and that you’re smashing Betty good, which makes her happy.”

 

Jughead pursed his lips and nodded. He really didn’t know what to say to that, either.

 

Kevin scowled. “Yeah, which reminds me--Betty, can I talk to you? Alone?”

 

Betty sighed and smirked apologetically. “Of course. Juggie, Cher, can you vacate?”

 

Jughead rolled his eyes. He resisted the urge to say that  _ he  _ got there first, so why should  _ he  _ leave, but he supposed that might be unsexy enough for Betty to rethink her good opinion of him.

 

Cheryl stomped out, dragging him by the arm and taking him to the porch.

 

*******

 

As soon as Jughead and Cheryl left the room, Kevin closed the office door and sat across from Betty on the seat that Jughead had vacated.

 

Betty leaned back on her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. 

 

“Betty.”

 

“Kevin.”

 

She could hear him tapping his foot impatiently, but she refused to throw him a line.

 

“So you didn’t text me after your date with Jug,” Kevin finally said.

 

“Oh, was I supposed to?”

 

Kevin arched an eyebrow. “Bitch, I  _ always  _ text you after my dates. We live for this shit and you need to stick to the formula!”

 

Betty stifled a grin. What he said was true. Kevin went on dates and practically wrote book report length texts about it to her the very next day. Kevin was never explicit about the things  _ he did  _ with his date, but there was certainly a lot of metaphors and vague descriptions to make the telling more colorful and possibly titillating. 

 

“Kev, how many of those dates became your boyfriend?”

 

“That’s totally beside the point.”

 

She rolled her eyes. “It’s everything to do with the point. The reason you can text me about Boy Toy 1 and Boy Toy 2 is because they were all just hookups for you.”

 

It was Kevin’s turn to roll his eyes.

 

Betty put her hands up. “I’m not judging you. Your Post Date texts have and always will be my guiltiest of guilty pleasures, but Jughead,” she paused and looked at Kevin shyly. “He’s not a hookup, Kev.”

 

He sighed. “Please. I know that. And I would never think so little of him that I would ask for details. Just general stuff.”

 

“Kevin!”

 

“Girl.”

 

She shook her head, turning back to her laptop and hoping she could find something to do. She didn’t know how much of it she can talk to with Kevin. It was all so new, and yet she felt like she was suddenly dating an old friend. She didn’t even know “comfortable” and “exciting” could mix, yet here she was.

 

“So is he, then?” Kevin asked. “Your boyfriend?”

 

She felt her face warm. “We hadn’t talked labels yet.”

 

He frowned. “Well, did you talk about him leaving or staying?”

 

Betty heard the testy note in Kevin’s tone and she had to appreciate her friend looking out for her. “Kind of. He’ll likely have to go back to the city, but he was pretty clear about keeping what we have going. He doesn’t want it to end if he has to leave.”

 

Kevin’s carefully sculpted eyebrow arched. “So he  _ is _ leaving, but he’ll—say, come back on weekends or something, or you’ll go to him?”

 

“We haven't gone into any specifics,” she replied, stubbornly keeping her tone steady. They hadn’t talked about it, but she trusted Jughead. He wouldn’t flake out on her.

 

“And you? How are you feeling about all this?”

 

Betty looked at Kevin sharply. What the hell did he mean by that? “What do you mean? I feel great. I’m happy being with him. You should know this, Kev. I’ve wanted this since he probably got here.”

 

He looked a little taken aback. “Whoa, there. Didn’t realize I had a nerve to hit. What’s going on there, girl?”

 

She pursed her lips, hating herself for going off like that. “There isn’t—“ She stopped and sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s not anything to do with you or Jughead. He is amazing and I have—“ She didn’t know why but she looked at the door, as if she were afraid Jughead would overhear. “I  _ feel  _ things for him that I’ve never felt before. He makes me want to do things I’ve never thought of doing with  _ anyone  _ else. Anyone. Get what I mean?”

 

Kevin reached across the table and encased her hands in his. He looked her straight in the eyes. “Does it involve handcuffs?”

 

“Kevin!” Her face felt warm, and she didn’t know why until a second later when she realized that with Jughead, it may as well  _ involve handcuffs. _

 

He laughed but did not let her pull away. “Honey, why do you say it like it’s a bad thing? This all sounds wonderful to me!”

 

“And it is,” she said, nodding. “I promise I think so, and I want him to stay for as long as possible, like physically, but, you know—that’s not entirely up to me. I have all these feelings but I feel like we’ve only just started and what if I come off as completely psycho? ‘Stay here forever, Juggie. Don’t ever leave me.’” She said that last part in a creepy voice.

 

It made Kevin giggle. “I don’t know if that’ll scare him, honestly. That boy’s got a dark side to him.”

 

“You know what I mean, Kev. And besides that, I feel like I’m going into uncharted territory here. I want him so badly—for everything, and I—” She sighed and fell back on her seat, closing her eyes. “It’s so soon that sometimes I wonder if I’m losing my mind. And this is coming from someone who married her college boyfriend of two years, Kev. It didn’t even feel this way with Trev.”

 

And there it was. She said it and she had a burgeoning need to take it back. “I mean, not that I compare or anything. Jughead and Trevor are completely different and really, it’s like apples and oranges…”

 

Kevin was scowling now. “Betty, Trevor’s been gone six years now. You’ve done your spousal duty to mourn him and I know what you’re feeling isn’t heartbreak anymore. God Forbid, it’s some of that Alice Cooper neurotic obligation shit she’s bred into you. I think you told me once that Alice thought seven years was an appropriate time to mourn a husband. You’re not  _ actually _ thinking about that, are you?”

 

_ God, if only it were that simple.  _ “No, Kev. It’s nothing like that, and if she did say that, it was probably some ancient tribal ritual that she unearthed during one of her news features—“ 

 

“You need to let this guilt  _ go,”  _ Kevin said firmly. “You need to talk this out with Jughead. You never talk about it. You hardly talk about what makes you unhappy.  _ This  _ is your problem. You are deathly afraid of making anyone uncomfortable and you will keep everything nice and cushy at the expense of your own well-being. Now I don’t know whose feelings you’re sheltering here: Jughead’s or your dead spouse, but the choice should be pretty clear, and I’m sorry if this is harsh, but Trev ain’t feeling anything anymore.”

 

She stared at Kevin, mildly shocked. 

 

Kevin sighed when he saw the expression on her face. “Look, hon, this is not a crisis. This is a  _ good  _ thing. Jughead is amazing and he is so gone on you—it’s beautiful. It’s not complicated, really. And honestly, I just wanted to know how the sex was. Good, bad, medium—“

 

She gave him a look.

 

“Well? How  _ is  _ the sex?”

 

She pursed her lips for a second but the smile she was trying to keep at bay pushed its way to the surface. “Mind. Blowing.”

 

“Hallelujah! Now I won’t ask for details, but if you do feel like sharing the dirty deets, you can text my burner phone. I promise I will get rid of all evidence afterwards.”

 

Betty couldn’t help but laugh, but then she felt Kevin’s hand on hers again.

 

“Betty, hon,” he said gently. “You know I’m here for you, right? If you need to talk about this more so that you can talk to Jughead, just give me a holler. We can drink, dance, or we can build something completely useless. Whatever it takes to get past those roadblocks in your head, we’ll do it, okay?”

 

She squeezed Kevin’s hand gratefully. “Thanks, Kev.”

 

“No problem. Now let’s go out there and save your man before Cheryl skins him alive.”

  
  


*******

 

Cheryl snapped her finger at Jughead the moment they stepped out on the porch. “Cigarette!”

 

He gave her a sliver, and when she had it tucked between her lips, he held a flame out for her. He lit his own cigarette and leaned against the porch railing, waiting for what Cheryl had to say.

 

“Are your friends coming here to meet Betty?” she asked, getting right to the punch.

 

“Yeah. And they miss me.”

 

She gave him a fierce glare. “On a scale of one to ten where one is  _ Entourage: The Movie  _ and ten is a Nicholas Sparks film, how do you see your relationship with Betty right now?”

 

What was it with today and scales? And since when was Nicholas Sparks the standard they all went by? “Definitely not  _ Entourage: The Movie.” _

 

“Wow, that almost wasn’t an answer! Picked up a thing or two from your ex-girlfriend?”

 

“Do you get a kick out of tearing down flesh and bone to stare into the souls of your victims before you suck their blood, Red?” He was getting irritated. He should probably be used to that with Cheryl by now.

 

“I protect my investments ruthlessly. You should know that by now.”

 

He scowled. “How is Betty your investment? Last I heard, she hasn’t accepted any of your money beyond your bookings here.”

 

“Her feelings for me is an investment. My friendship and trust in her is an emotional investment. She is the only true friend I have. If you break her I will fucking end you.”

 

He stuck his cigarette in his mouth so he can hold his hands up. “Breaking her is not even a quark in my mind. I’d break myself first before I allow a thought like that in my head.”

 

“So you’re not just going to up and leave with a ‘thanks for all the fish’ letter.”

 

He arched an impressed eyebrow. “Why, Red. Do my ears deceive me or did you read  _ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy?” _

 

She stiffened. “Please. I saw the movie.”

 

He smirked. He didn’t believe her.

 

“Don’t change the subject! Are you sticking around or are you just gonna bail on her?”

 

“I’m sticking around. For as long as she’ll let me. Even after I have to leave this place.”

 

“Does she know that?”

 

He scowled. “Of course she does. She and I have talked about it. Now if you’re done poking your fangs into something that is entirely none of your business--”

 

“Why do you have to move out? Just, like, stay here forever.”

 

“As I was saying,” he said, his voice louder. “Something that is entirely none of your business--”

 

“And then what? You’ll rent an overpriced apartment in the city, then come back here on weekends? In a few months, you’ll probably be moving in together, and it sure as hell won’t be Betty living in New York. Unless, of course, you’re thinking it won’t ever get to that.”

 

He was getting aggravated. “Have you never been in a relationship where you know exactly how you feel about a person but still be uncertain about your future with them? Because nobody is really psychic, Cher, and you never know what the other person is  _ thinking.” _

 

Cheryl frowned, and he cursed himself for letting her rile him up enough to say too much.  _ Again. _

 

“You’re an idiot,” she said.

 

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, why?”

 

“Have you not talked to her about Trev?”

 

“It hasn’t come up in too much detail! This is new and I don’t want to fuck it up so soon. I’ll take what she gives me. I don’t want to ruin it with my stupid insecurities.”

 

“How does a treasure like you have insecurities?”

 

“That is the dumbest question I’ve ever heard in my fucking life.” He was surprised at the venom in his own voice.

 

She paused, taking a drag of her cigarette. “Fair.”

 

“Things are really good,” he said, candidly. “I’m not going to ruin it by rushing a discussion that can be had over time. And we have time. It’s not like we don’t.”

 

She shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m not one to keep things bottled inside, is what I’m saying. I don’t do things in halves. It’s go big or go home for me, particularly with relationships. Sure, it means I get dumped in Paris after buying her a $3,000 bag and then have an emotional breakdown in Louis Vuitton, but that’s how I roll. I understand that you’re more deliberate. Must be a writer thing.”

 

Jughead rolled his eyes. “Why do you all attribute the way I am to my being a writer?”

 

“Be grateful for it. The rest of us just get called crazy and unbearable.”

 

Cheryl could be such a bull in a China shop. 

 

By the time Betty and Kevin emerged from the house, Jughead was on his third cigarette and Cheryl had managed to get two dates with two different women by text.

 

Rebound girls, as Cheryl called them.

 

“All set?” Jughead asked Betty, putting his cigarette out.

 

“Why do you never smoke around Betty but you never hesitate to light up around me?” Cheryl asked.

 

Jughead wanted to point out that she asked for the cigarette first but did realize anyway that was kind of true. He  _ had  _ smoked around Betty, but often with her permission first. He shrugged.

 

“He cares more about Betty’s health than yours,” Kevin pointed out, plopping on a chair.

 

Betty shot Kevin a gently scolding look and settled beside him on the couch. “That’s not true. Tell them Juggie.”

 

“Cheryl has a point,” he replied.

 

“See!” Cheryl cried.

 

“Juggie!”

 

“You’re my girl. What can I say?”

 

Kevin laughed and Betty blushed.

 

Jughead loved that he can do that to her. He loved calling her his girl straight to her face. He was a little thrilled she didn’t deny it. Then again, she wasn’t going to embarrass him either by telling him no in front of other people.

 

“Hey, Betts. Want to walk over to Farmer John?” he asked.  

 

“Sure,” she said.

 

They made their way down the porch, and when they started walking, he took her hand and twined their fingers. She seemed a little surprised, but she didn’t hesitate. 

 

He smiled, maybe slightly apologetic. “I didn’t mean to put a label on you.”

 

She looked at her feet as they walked. “You didn’t?”

 

“I mean, not without asking you, first,” he explained. “I want to be able to define what I feel about you to others, but I guess I forgot to talk to you about it.”

 

She stopped him in his tracks, and when he looked at her, she was staring up at him with an amused smile on her face. She kissed him, softly, and he felt a warmth spread from his chest to the rest of his body. 

 

“I like the way you said it,” she said. “Like I’m special, instead of--you know, in a territorial way.”

 

“You  _ are  _ special,” he said quietly. “And I’d like to think I’m not a bonehead.”

 

She chuckled. “I don’t think you are.”

 

“So…” he arched an eyebrow questioningly.

 

“We can use labels,” she said, simply. “If necessary.”

 

“Like… when Reggie asks you out on a date?”

 

She stopped and looked at him in mind surprise, laughing. “I thought you weren’t territorial?”

 

He laughed, too, slightly embarrassed. “I’m  _ not.  _ I just--” He shrugged, putting his arm around her. “I can’t keep letting him ask  _ my  _ girl out and expect me not to  _ say  _ something.”

 

“How about  _ I  _ say something to him?”

 

He pretended to think about it. She pinched his side lightly for it.

 

“Ow! Okay. Sure, fine. That works, I guess.”

 

She chuckled and hugged his middle. “So Veronica and Archie must miss you a lot to go through all that trouble to come here.”

 

“It’s not really a whole lot of trouble for them. For the people that work for them, maybe, but all they have to do is not talk about it on Twitter and keep a low profile when they’re around here.”

 

“All that just to see you again.”

 

“They can afford to act on their whims. Also, they wanted to meet you. And see this place. I guess considering you and your farm are all I talk about with them.”

 

“They must be thrilled.”

 

He laughed at her flat tone. “You are the only one who thinks this place is boring.”

 

She sighed, chuckling. “I don’t think this place is boring. I love it, but I do think other people think this place is boring and I don’t blame them.”

 

“How many times do I have to tell you that I love this place?”

 

“Well,” she said, hugging him tighter. “You’re my kind of weird. And a writer.”

 

“There’s that writer thing again. I swear to God. It’s  _ not  _ the writing thing, okay? I just enjoy the life here. Is that so hard to believe?”

 

She cocked a smile. “But you’re a thinking man, Juggie. You like places that make you think--libraries, museums, vintage shops, bookstores, and book readings.”

 

“Those things will always be accessible to me,” he said. “By car, train, or motorcycle, wherever I come from. And I bet you like those things, too. We can go together, yeah?”

 

She seemed pleased by the suggestion and she nodded.

 

“Listen, our last date went pretty well, don’t you think?”

 

“Mmm-hmm. It was fantastic.” Her eyes sparkled.

 

He smirked. “Let’s have a day out this time. Maybe not to the city quite yet, because Jesus, I need to make sure TMZ’s moved on to the next sordid news cycle--”

 

She stifled a laugh.

 

“--but somewhere different. Maybe the shore? That way, I can see you in that swimsuit again, because  _ damn, baby.” _

 

“You liked that, huh?”

 

“I had to smoke Reggie’s weed. It was that intense.”

 

She reached up and cupped his face as she kissed him. “I like it when you call me baby.”

 

He smiled, pulling her closer to continue their kiss.

 

They never did get to Farmer John.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andrews in the next chapter.


	9. Small Plates and Spanish Tastes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty looked at this strangely odd couple: Veronica, with the pearls, a dark purple dress which looked like it came right off Dolce & Gabbana’s runway collection, the expensive shoes, and a harrowingly expensive bag. Then Archie, looking exactly like a rockstar on vacation--ripped jeans, wide-necked shirt with a designer leather jacket, which Jughead wouldn’t be caught dead in, and interesting brown lace up boots. 
> 
> They didn’t look like they belonged together, and yet they did. The moment they moved away from Jughead their arms were around each other, and they were smiling at one another, clearly in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a frantic chapter, with the whirlwind that is Archie and Veronica presiding. 
> 
> And oh, yes, happy Riverdale day!

 

_ Excerpt from  _ **_Harvest to Home_ ** **,** **_Small Plates and Spanish Tastes_ **

 

_ “I love it when food is presented in small plates and eclectic tastes. It gives us all the opportunity to take our palates on an adventure without having to commit to an entire dish. With little portions of flavor, we can broaden our horizons immeasurably, because one little taste can open our minds to an entire cuisine. _

 

_ This is possibly why I find Spanish tapas so clever and unique. The range of flavor between one Spanish small plate to another can be a perfect pairing or a complete contrast. Either way, everybody wins, because each plate is delicious in and of itself. _

 

_ Here are my favorite Spanish tapas...” _

 

_ \--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast _

  
  
  


Archie and Veronica arrived at lunch the next day.  

 

As promised, there was no entourage, no bodyguards, and nothing to indicate that a rockstar was coming to Riverdale Farms.

 

They drove into the farm in a black Escalade, which was relatively low key since most Ubers used that car.

 

They pulled over to the side, and they were barely parked when the passenger’s side door flew open and a petite brunette, whom Betty assumed was Veronica, hopped out excitedly and rushed into Jughead’s arms.

 

Grinning, Jughead hugged her back and lifted her off the ground.

 

“Jug!” Veronica cried. “I’ve missed you so much!” She kissed his cheek and then let her eyes take in the entire place. “This place is  _ beautiful!” _

 

“I knew you’d like it,” Jughead said.

 

“My man!” cried an impossibly good looking, redheaded guy, rounding the SUV and going straight for Jughead. He took Jughead into a bearhug, followed by hearty slaps to the back. “I missed ya, buddy!”

 

Betty looked at this strangely odd couple: Veronica, with the pearls, a dark purple dress which looked like it came right off Dolce & Gabbana’s runway collection, the expensive shoes, and a harrowingly expensive bag. Then Archie, looking exactly like a rockstar on vacation--ripped jeans, wide-necked shirt with a designer leather jacket, which Jughead wouldn’t be caught dead in, and interesting brown lace up boots. 

 

They didn’t look like they belonged together, and yet they did. The moment they moved away from Jughead their arms were around each other, and they were smiling at one another, clearly in love. 

 

Betty couldn’t help smiling at their happiness. 

 

“This is Betty,” Jughead said, gesturing for her to step forward.

 

She did, holding her hand out to give a polite, “Nice to meet you,” but she was immediately accosted by Veronica in a warm hug.

 

“I’ve heard  _ so much  _ about you, Betty. All of them good. I am so happy to finally meet you! I’m Veronica. Jughead has probably referred to me as Ronnie!”

 

“I’m glad to finally meet you, too!” And Betty meant it, because she felt that Veronica was absolutely sincere. 

 

Archie came over to hug her next. “I’m Archie! Finally, I get to meet the woman my best friend wouldn’t shut up about! You are  _ gorgeous!  _ And that hair! Such a beautiful blonde.  Seriously, like wow! So Hitchcock!”

 

Betty touched her hair self-consciously.

 

Jughead scowled. “Arch.”

 

“Amirite, babe?” Archie continued, turning to Veronica.

 

“Umm-hmm,” Veronica drawled, crossing her arms over her chest with a knowing, lopsided grin. “Putting the slick in Slick Jack?”

 

“More like putting the ick in slick,” Jughead said, rescuing Betty from his best friend. “Don’t hurt yourself trying to be clever.  

 

Archie chortled, pleased with himself as he directed a wink in Jughead’s direction. 

 

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Betty whispered to Jughead.

 

“Nothing, Betts. It’s perfect.”

 

Kevin and Farmer John were introduced. Cheryl wasn’t there at the moment, having had a previous engagement, but she would be by before lunch was over. She hadn’t, in fact, been back since last night.

 

Kevin was clearly thrilled to be talking to Archie and Veronica, admiring Veronica’s shoes and bags, loving stories from fashion week and the red carpet--basically all the things Kevin could have talked about with Cheryl if Kevin weren’t so terrified of her.

 

Archie and Jughead, in the meantime, caught up, and Betty was fascinated by their dynamic. Archie was gregarious and large, punctuating everything with big gestures and the optimism of a puppy. Jughead served up hilariously sardonic commentary, sometimes teasing Archie into admitting the flaws of what always seemed to be a grand plan. 

 

Betty was also intrigued by how Archie and Veronica seemed to want to bring her in all the time, asking her opinion, adding her to the narrative, or just looking her straight in the eyes even in a group discussion.

 

They were, to Betty’s estimation, either very inclusive people or was prompted by Jughead through whatever he had told them. She hoped it was the latter.

 

Betty served lunch at the formal dining room this time, just because the kitchen was too small for all of them, especially if Cheryl actually got there.

 

Betty had been eager to make an impression, and knowing Veronica’s Latina heritage, she went with some Spanish cuisine--gazpacho, ceviche, and tapas: Albodingas, Patatas Bravas, Gildas, and Gambas al Ajillo.

 

Veronica was completely in love with it.  _ “Todo lo que amo está en esta mesa!” _

 

Betty felt delight bubble up at the sound of Veronica’s words. “But of course you speak Spanish! I’ve been wanting to learn the language forever. I’ve been trying to do it online but it’s hard when you have no one to speak it with regularly.”

 

“You can practice with me, hon,” Veronica said decidedly.

 

Betty clapped her hands. “Oh, can I? I only know the basic stuff at this point.” She rolled off  the beginner phrases she’d learned so far and Veronica encouragingly said she sounded really good. 

 

Jughead sighed with a goofy grin. “I don’t even care what it means. She can talk to me like that all day.”

 

Archie laughed.  _ “So whipped.” _

 

Betty felt her cheeks warm even as she tried to stifle a giggle. 

 

“Learning a new language is wonderful, Betty,” Farmer John said, spooning some food onto his plate and picking up some bread. “I’m trying to learn French, myself. _ ” _

 

“And how’s that going, Farmer John?” Kevin asked, piercing a shrimp and sticking it in his mouth.

 

“So far, the goats have been unresponsive to  _ ‘avant, chèvres!’” _

 

“I’m a little surprised Mama Cooper didn’t make you learn 10 languages, Betty,” Kevin pointed out.

 

“Kevin, my mother isn’t like--well, I suppose she was,” she said, shrugging. “She did send me to Spain for two summers. Then she hoped I would learn French through my ballet, but I only really learned the ballet terminology:  _ sautés, jetés, entrechat, cabriole, assemblé _ .”

 

Jughead’s eyes trailed over her, and they had a glint that suggested unholy things to come, which gave her those damn flutters again. 

 

“Well, thank you for thinking of me when you set your menu,” Veronica cooed, redirecting the conversation back to the food. “This looks amazing. I definitely feel so at home right now.”

 

Betty was well pleased with the success of her first impression. The food was also as good as it looked, and of course she paired it all with Sangria. 

 

Archie and Veronica talked animatedly, asking so many questions about the farm and how Jughead’s been living in it. Kevin had questions about the music industry and about celebrities, and Archie easily answered those, with Veronica adding her perspective on both business and style. Kevin was rapt and even Farmer John looked intrigued.

 

Betty noticed that at times Jughead spaced out, probably because he had heard some of these celebrity stories already, but when she felt Jughead’s hand on her thigh, she tried her hardest to pretend everything was normal.

 

He leaned over, pressing his lips to her ear, and said, “You gonna speak French to me later?”

 

His breath on her neck was enough to send goosebumps rippling through her body. She brought some sangria to her lips as she nodded at him casually. 

 

_ “Oui,”  _ she whispered back. 

 

His eyes darkened so quickly and his hand flirted with the hem of her skirt, inching it up her thigh. All she could do not to respond was laugh at a funny story that Veronica was telling. She didn’t even know what was funny as she missed the first few seconds of it, so occupied was she by Jughead’s amorous advances. 

 

He was definitely murmuring sweet obscenities in her ear, and while no one heard the words, everyone saw how close he was leaning in.

 

“Like, seriously, Jug? Ronnie and I just got here! Can you remove yourself from Betty for--like, two seconds?” Archie cried. “I’m gonna get pregnant just by looking at you two.”

 

“Archie!” Veronica cried, screaming with laughter.

 

Jughead looked up, mildly. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the years of me having to deal with  _ your _ PDA”

 

This, of course, sent the table in a small uproar, and while Betty felt her face imploding, she felt a thrill at the fact that he wasn’t hiding his desire for her in the least.

 

Of course it was at that moment Cheryl walked in wearing the tightest leopard print dress ever known to man. 

 

“Hello, sluts,” she said, taking her seat at the head of the table like the queen she was. “Are Jughead and Betty eye fucking again?”

 

Betty felt a little bit like dying, Jughead rolled his eyes, and Farmer John looked scandalized, but everyone else seemed to love it, and Archie and Veronica happily introduced themselves to Cheryl, who immediately went for the kill.

 

“I can see why you like taking off your shirt all the time,” Cheryl said, giving Archie the once over. “But you don’t hold a candle to your wife, who I am undressing this very minute with my eyes.”

 

“Oh, dear God,” Betty breathed.

 

“I am happily married to Archie,” Veronica replied haughtily. “But I’ll allow you to look.”

 

“God, I can’t with the bis!” Kevin gushed exasperatedly. 

 

Cheryl winked and raised a glass at Veronica. “I think we may have been smashing in another life.”

 

“I’ll tell you to quit flirting with my wife but I am finding this extremely hot,” Archie said as-a-matter-of-factly.

 

“They’re not flirting for your pleasure, Arch,” Jughead drawled. “Let’s be clear.” 

 

Veronica grinned. “I love it when Jughead done goes feministing on you, Archiekins.”

 

Encouraged, Cheryl upped the spiciness of their lunch discussion and conversation at the table became uproarious and filthy. 

 

“Did anybody invite Reggie?” Kevin asked. “Because Reggie feeding off all this is my religion.”

 

Jughead popped an olive in his mouth as he said, “Can’t. Archie and Reggie meeting will be a singular event creating a vortex of fuckboy-ness that will suck us all into the bro-verse. It’s not a good place to be when, like me, your favorite color palette is dark to black.”

 

Betty thought that so deliciously geeky  _ and  _ sarcastic that she cast Jughead an adoring gaze. 

 

Kevin spoke above the laughter. “Seriously, I think Reggie and Archie may get along famously. Please, Jughead? Please, Betty? May I text him?”

 

“Why are you asking Jughead?” Veronica asked, her eyebrow quirking.

 

“Because Reggie has held a torch for Betty for years now and always asks her to go out with him,” Farmer John explained. “Loudly.”

 

“Drama! I love it!” Veronica gasped. “Do it, Kevin!”

 

“Now hold on,” Jughead said, scowling. “That’s a little mean. He’s a nice guy and I’m not comfortable playing with his feelings.”

 

Betty smiled at him, pleased. She felt exactly the same and she kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Juggie. I agree.”

 

“Oh, please,” Cheryl said. “It’s not like Reggie’s in love with her or anything. And I happen to know that he sleeps with a new girl every other week! Do it, Kevin!”

 

“Texting!” Kevin said as he tapped on his phone.

 

“Lord,” Betty said under her breath. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

 

Jughead shook his head. “It’s okay. We’re not gonna play. It’ll be fine.”

 

******

 

“B. Coop!” Reggie boomed from the backyard door, arms open as he made his way to Betty. “C’mere and give me a big wet one! Guaranteed something’s gonna get big and someone’s gonna be wet!”

 

“Dammit, Reggie!” Betty cried exasperatedly.

 

Whatever compassion Jughead had for Reggie went flying out the window. 

 

“This is about to get ugly,” he growled, fist clenching and shoulders tensing. Would Betty be very mad at him if he maybe clocked Reggie in the fucking face?

 

Jughead rose from his set, Archie tackled him from behind, and things were just about to go  _ down,  _ when a stream of high pressure water came out of nowhere and sprayed Reggie indelicately, sending him sprawling and slipping on the lawn grass.  

 

There was a scream. Maybe from Cheryl. Of delight, for sure. 

 

As the water died down and Reggie sputtered from the ground, dripping wet, they saw Farmer John, wielding the hose he used to clean the goat pens. He turned the hose off once he was satisfied that Reggie had been properly doused. 

 

“For God’s sake,” Farmer John said in an annoyed tone. This was clearly years of getting scandalized by Reggie’s obscene overtures towards Betty. “Show some respect for the lady!  She is our queen and she doesn’t deserve such shabby language! And by the way, Betty and Jughead are together, so your chances went from zero to nil.”

 

Farmer John left in a huff, shouldering his hose as he uttered profanities as he went. He was probably going to tend to his goats.

 

Jughead, for the most part, stood there assessing the degree in which that humiliation was payment enough for what Reggie had just said. He was considering that it was. 

 

Reggie blinked, wiping the water from his eyes. He stood up, sopping wet, and looked at Betty like she had slapped him then plunged a knife through his heart. “Seriously, Betty? Six years I’ve--you just went and started dating Jughead?”

 

“Reggie!” she gasped, shocked. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

 

“Thanks for letting me know!” he cried angrily, absolutely serious about it. He took off his shirt, attempted to wring it of excess liquid, then gave up, throwing it to the ground with a wet splat. He stormed off to the side of the house.

 

“Reggie!” She cried. “Reg!” She turned to Jughead pleadingly. “I need to--”

 

Jughead sighed, his shoulders sagging. “Go.”

 

She did, and he watched Betty run after Reggie as he turned the corner, probably to head back to his truck. 

 

“That did not go as I had expected,” Kevin said. “I love it!”

 

“What a body!” Veronica gushed, breathless.

 

Jughead glared at her. “Really, Ronnie?”

 

_ Six pack!  _ she mouthed at Kevin, who nodded vigorously.

 

Jughead gave a frustrated growl. It was officially taking all of his willpower not to go after Betty, who was currently chasing down a half-naked hunk.

 

“Is it bad that I see myself in Reggie?” Archie pointed out.  

 

“He looked real broken up, though,” Veronica said as an afterthought. “I feel bad now that I even wanted to see that happen.”

 

Jughead scowled. “Don’t feel sorry for him. Did you hear him say all that? That was obscene, even for him!”

 

“You’re just annoyed that you didn’t get to sock him in the face,” Cheryl said. “Reggie has the emotional range of a teaspoon. He’ll be back to asking her out once he gets over himself, which is strangely dichotomous, but true.”

 

“Red, you just made a Harry Potter reference,” Jughead pointed out, which made Cheryl blush painfully. “Earlier it was  _ Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.  _ You are a closet geek. Don’t you fucking deny it. I’m onto you.” 

 

“Fuck you, Jughead Jones.”

 

“You know, Cheryl,” Kevin said. “If I didn’t know you prefer vag and hate dick, I would swear you and Jughead were smashing.”

 

“Don’t be disgusting,” Cheryl hissed. 

 

Veronica and Archie laughed hysterically and Jughead rolled his eyes. “God, as if.”

 

**************

 

“Reggie, can you please stop and talk to me?” Betty pleaded as Reggie got into his truck. “I  _ did not  _ want you to find out that way!”

 

“Whatever, Betty,” Reggie said, getting in the driver’s seat and shutting the door to his truck. “Eight years, Betty. We’ve been friends eight years. I’ve loved you for six and I’ve taken your rejection like a champ. I would’ve appreciated a heads up on  _ that  _ one.”

 

She leaned on his open window and frowned. “I have never led you on! You know that! And to be perfectly honest, I never believed you were ever serious. Nobody did! Why are you so furious?”

 

Reggie sighed, leaning back on his seat. “And Jughead! God, I want to punch him in the face right now.”

 

“That is totally unfair and completely ridiculous. You have no right to do that.”

 

“God, I’ve been an idiot!”

 

“Reggie!” she cried. “ _ What  _ is this about?”

 

Reggie leaned his head on the steering wheel. “How long have you and Jughead been… you know?”

 

She sighed, giving him a sympathetic look. “A few days, officially, but we’ve kind of been dancing around each other since he got here. Weeks, now. Reg… I really, really like him. He’s--” she bit her lip, unwanted guilt welling up in the pit of her stomach. “He is  _ so _ … overwhelming, you know? Like--like Trev was overwhelming.”  _ More, even, and now I have to learn to accept that.  _ “I’m sorry. I know he was your best friend. I’m sorry.”

 

Reggie looked up and she could see his gaze becoming liquid. Her eyes began to tear up as well.

 

“Aw, B. Coop,” Reggie whined, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m being stupid. You know that, right? Get in the truck, will you? I promise I won’t kidnap you.”

 

She chuckled through her tears and she went around to the passenger side to let herself in. She slammed the truck door and she found herself sniffling a bit more into her fingers. “I’m sorry, Reg. I know you loved Trev like a brother. I’m sorry that I couldn’t keep loving him. I’m sorry I’m falling for someone else.” The moment she said that last part, she knew she wanted to take it back. “Or maybe I’m not sorry about  _ that.” _

 

Reggie was sniffling, too, and he reached over to the glove compartment to bring out some tissues. He offered her some before taking some for himself. “I keep this for Farmer John.”

 

She laughed through her tears. “I do the same thing!”

 

He laughed with her. He took her hand and she didn’t pull away, knowing in her gut that he wasn’t making a pass at her in that moment. 

 

“You know, this thing I’ve had for you, I’ve often asked myself if this wasn’t my way of keeping his memory alive. Like, if I can love you and get you to fall for me, I won’t have to forget how it was having him around, you know? Because Betty… I’m  _ forgetting.” _

 

She looked up at him, her tears slipping from her cheeks. “Oh, Reggie. I  _ so know  _ what you mean. I do. I am so sorry, Reg!”

 

He nodded, his own tears coming. She threw her arms around him and they cried together in that truck, unloading on possibly years of guilt and turmoil. Relief that finally, someone understands.

 

Trev hadn’t had a mother, father, or sibling to mourn his loss. When Betty met Trev, he had been orphaned two years before, his father leaving him the farm and the house. He had uncles, aunts, and cousins, but they weren’t his family like Betty and Reggie had been. She had not had someone in his family to turn to who understood the loss.

 

Reggie had turned away from the grief, throwing himself into his job, his women, and yes, his near-comical infatuation with Betty. Her grief had been quiet. Lonely. And sometimes dark. She didn’t think to turn to Reggie for fear of bringing him down. If she had known his suffering, she might have sought his comfort, and maybe their story would’ve been different.

 

But life was never so simple, and now she had Jughead, who she knew she was falling for, in spite of the guilt that she was somehow struggling with, and it was both exhilarating and eating her up inside. That final stand of Trev’s memory was cornered and at its scariest, and now she has to deal with it. She knew she had to and it was astounding that it was Reggie who was helping her do that.

 

“I’ve been a jerk,” Reggie said. “I know that. And seriously, B. Coop, you  _ should  _ be able to find happiness. I know Trev would’ve wanted that.”

 

She nodded. “Does this make me a bad wife, Reg?”

 

He took her face in his hands. “Sweetheart, Trev is dead. He isn’t your husband anymore. You do know that, right?”

 

She choked on a laugh through her tears. She nodded again. “I know. I absolutely know.”

 

“I know that Trev was crazy about you,” he said. “And if Jughead can give you more, then I know that he’s a really great guy. At least Trev made sure you wouldn’t settle for less. Just let yourself, okay? Give yourself permission, whether it’s Jughead or some other awesome dude.”

 

She smiled, leaning over to give Reggie a squishy, wet hug. 

 

“Besides,” Reggie said. “If it doesn’t work out with Donnie Darko, maybe I’ll be the  _ one  _ after all!”

 

She pulled away and slapped his arm.

 

“Ow! Hey, a guy could dream!”

 

“Shut up, Reggie. You were doing so well!” She opened the truck to get out.

 

“Aw, don’t be like that, B. Coop! Okay, I’m sorry. I should’ve--”

 

“Are you going to just sit there whining or are you going to come inside and meet a rockstar?”

 

His smile reappeared. “I totally want to meet a rockstar, B. Coop.”

 

“Then come back out. We’ll get you some dry clothing.”

 

“Can I still keep ask you out?”

 

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Do it at your own risk. I don’t know if Juggie will take that sitting down. Maybe if you keep it respectful. That last one--”

 

He grinned. “I know. Probably a bit much. I got excited, and maybe I kinda knew you and Jughead worked out, so I was kinda itching for a fight.”

 

_ “Don’t  _ do that.”

 

He got out of the truck and held up his hands. “I make no promises.”

 

*********

 

Betty walked out of the backyard door with Reggie in tow and he was greeted by Archie with a resounding “There he is! Our newest pal, Reggie!”

 

There was a vaguely mutinous look on Jughead’s face as everyone welcomed Reggie like a hero returned, and Betty tried not to giggle. 

 

She slipped her arms around Jughead, and when he looked at her in surprise, she planted a steamy kiss right on his lips for everyone to see. 

 

Whoops and cheers sounded, and Reggie cried out, “Ouch, B. Coop! Can’t you wait until I’m gone?”

 

Jughead flipped him the finger.

 

Reggie laughed. “You’re feeling threatened, I know!”

 

Jughead rolled his eyes, because really, he wouldn’t be Reggie if he didn’t say things like that.

 

*****************

 

Archie and Reggie  _ did  _ get along like old frat buddies, talking about all sorts of dude bro things. Veronica and Cheryl flirted like  _ crazy  _ and Jughead had to wonder whether Archie was letting it happen because he didn’t realize it or because he thought it was hot. 

 

“I swear to God,” Jughead said under his breath for only Kevin and Betty to hear. “Sometimes I think that Archie’s such a fuckboy that I believe he might be letting Cheryl get away with flirting with Veronica in the off chance that he can finagle a threesome out of it.”

 

Betty frowned. “Archie? That little puppy? I don’t think he has a manipulative bone in his body. He’s so good-natured.” 

 

Kevin scoffed. “Yeah. He makes Betty look like freaking Atilla the Hun.”

 

Betty wrapped her arm around Jughead’s arm. “Seriously, Juggie, I’m sure he’s not  _ that  _ girl-crazy.”

 

Jughead kissed her nose. “You are so sweet, babe, and I wish you were right, but I’ve know Archie almost all his life.  He is the nuclear bomb of girl crazy. When we were in highschool, he was in the football team, and he got so much pussy, it interfered with his game. He would stay up late just romancing these parade of women. The coach finally had to suspend him for a month, and so he took up the guitar. For a while I thought it was because the call of music was so strong, but no, he picked it up to get more chicks, one of which happened to be our music teacher. Fortunately, he did have a knack for music, which basically just made his chick addiction so much worse. He would play at frat parties and he would play ballads with his shirt off because that got him laid even more frequently. That’s when he created the band. They were The Archies at the time and for a hot minute, I was their drummer, but I couldn’t handle being around all those women _.  _ I swear to God, I was never so baked in my entire life, but pot was the only way I could cope with that shit--”

 

“Wait,” Betty interrupted, exchanging incredulous looks with Kevin.  _ “You  _ were a drummer in a band?”

 

Jughead looked surprised. “Wow, that’s what you’re hanging on to? The drummer part? Not the excessive consumption of pot, part?”

 

Betty arched an eyebrow. “And this surprises you because…?”

 

Kevin leaned forward. “So you could’ve been part of  _ Slick Jack  _ and become world famous? What the hell, dude? Did they kick you out of the band for being high all the time?” 

 

“Please,” Jughead drawled. “They didn’t kick me out. I quit. Archie didn’t speak to me for weeks. But he got over it. He’s my best friend and he knows that the rockstar life would’ve made me miserable.”

 

“Yeah,” Betty said, kissing his shoulder. “It would have.”

 

He smiled at her, secure in the knowledge that she would understand him. Kevin was less understanding. 

 

“Fuck that. Go to therapy just like any other tortured rock star! All that fame and fortune--”

 

“Is my nightmare,” Jughead interjected. “Anyway, enough about me. We were talking about Archie, and his seeming lack of awareness or possible diabolical quest for a threesome.”

 

Kevin pondered it briefly. “Yeah, Cheryl would  _ never  _ be in a threesome with a dude in it. She thinks dick is gross.”

 

Betty’s eyes rolled. “Please. She thinks  _ real  _ dick is gross. I’ve seen her collection.”

 

“God,” Jughead muttered, stuffing another slider in his mouth. “Don’t let Reggie hear you.”

 

*********

 

They converged again as a group, eventually, and the afternoon turned into dinner, where Betty, this time, went with simple Italian fare. She threw in a homemade pizza for fun, and for dessert, the tiramisu cups that Jughead loved.

 

Inevitably, the ultra fit and cut Archie began moaning about how he needed to get a workout routine going if he had to eat this way for an entire week.

 

“My trainer will be coming in three times this week in the mornings,” Cheryl said. “All are welcome to join. Yoga offer still stands, Betty.”

 

Betty scowled. Exercise was a thing she did. Mostly ballet routines in her basement studio, but she was done with the whole ballet diet of Bird Food and excessive exercise, just shy of anorexia and bulimia. Her farm work certainly made up for the lack of traditional exercises, like running, weights, and Yoga.  

 

But with her emotional state being pointedly off-balance, she thought the meditation might help. Cheryl was right. She had mad shit in her mind. Her crying jag with Reggie had proven it.

 

“I’ll do Yoga!” Veronica said.

 

“Fine,” Betty grumbled. 

 

Cheryl grinned. “Jughead?”

 

Jughead gave her a tense smile, saying nothing.

 

“Just the ladies, then. Exactly how I like it!” Cheryl declared.

 

“Hey, Jug! You haven’t gone soft on me, have you?” Archie said. “I know you’ve been lifting bales of hay and doing construction stuff with Kevin, but have you punched a bag lately?”

 

“I wish!” Kevin sighed.

 

Jughead cast him a sidelong glance. “We don’t have punching bags hanging from rafters around here Arch. It’s a farm.”

 

“I got punching bags!” Reggie declared. 

 

“Of course you do, Reggie,” Jughead replied, throwing his hands up.

 

“I’ll pick you guys up tomorrow, crack o’ dawn. Head on over to my place! Girls are welcome too, of course.”

 

The leer he cast them rathered ensured that would never happen in his lifetime.

 

Archie grinned. “Cool, just us dudes, then! Jug helps train the best. He can show us a couple of things. We’re gonna be so badass!”

 

He groaned. “Look, I got stuff to do on the farm--”

 

“Juggie, you can skip that to spend time with the guys,” Betty told him gently.

 

“There you go!” Archie cried.

 

Jughead shot Betty a sardonic look, and Betty realized her mistake, making a face as she stifled a giggle. “Sorry.”

 

He sighed. “You’re probably right, anyway.”

 

“Kevin, wanna join us?” Archie asked.

 

Kevin took about two seconds to think about it. “Yes!”

 

Betty tried not to arch an eyebrow in his general direction. Working out with three good looking sweaty dudes, one of which was a rockstar? She’d have been shocked if he said no.

 

It occurred to her then that Jughead was right. Archie and Veronica did bring some measure of chaos. Less than a day and Cheryl was raising eyebrows, Reggie had gotten hosed by Farmer John, and now their routines were changing, which Betty supposed was the whole point of her having guests on the farm. She wanted this and she felt a bubble of happiness rising in her chest.  

 

And in spite of these little disruptions, the farm goes on. It always does.

 

************

 

Betty crawled out of bed at 4AM sharp to make a very healthy breakfast for everybody.

 

Jughead tried desperately to stop her, his amorous hands trailing over her curves temptingly. How she managed to get away from him, she didn’t know. She might have promised him an unreasonable amount of sexy times.

 

She showered quickly and got the day ready for workouts galore.

 

Breakfast cups: layered homemade granola, berries, yogurt, and honey. There were other fresh fruits, as well. But for anyone needing a good shot of protein, she made ham, egg white, and bell pepper burritos--no cheese, as much as she was tempted to. Since the boys would be leaving, she packed the breakfast cups, fruit cups, and burritos in baggies, one for each, even Reggie. Farmer John flat out refused to join any of the proceedings since the goats were his priority.

 

She had disposable coffee cups in case anyone wanted to take it to go.

 

Jughead came down first, as expected, dressed for their planned activities: a tank and workout pants. His hands were already taped and she didn’t even hide how sexy she thought he looked.

 

She raked her eyes over him. “You should dress like this--always,” she said, curling her finger for him to come closer.

 

His hands were immediately on her and his tongue was sweeping into her mouth. She was already in Yoga gear, which was mostly what she wore for ballet workouts.

 

They didn’t even notice Veronica ambling in with Archie. 

 

“Whoa! Keep it in your pants for later, dude,” Archie said, taking some coffee. They were dressed but obviously still groggy from sleep.

 

“I  _ never  _ thought I’d ever hear that from Archie,” Jughead said.

 

She laughed as she went to get out the cream and sugar.

 

“How are you so perky this time in the morning?” Veronica asked Jughead, scowling.

 

“Betty made me this way,” Jughead said, taking his cup of black. 

 

Kevin arrived shortly and the shit-eating grin he flashed upon seeing the gentlemen on the premises made Betty grin. When Reggie arrived, he was his same bombastic self, and Betty sent off the boys with their baggies.

 

Jughead kissed her like a man going off to war. 

 

“Jesus, Jug, it’s just a couple of hours! Three, max!” Archie cried. 

 

Reggie didn’t even stay to watch. He just rolled his eyes and left.

 

“It’s hilarious to me that since yesterday, Archie has basically been living the last fifteen years of my life with him,”  Jughead drawled, taking his sweet time kissing her and copping a feel as he did.

 

Archie sighed loudly. “Now you’re just showing off.”

 

Betty giggled into the kiss and Jughead finally let her go. 

 

“Thanks for breakfast, babe,” he said, holding up the baggie. “You’re a Goddess.”

 

Betty smiled at him appreciatively.

 

“How come you never call me a Goddess, Archiekins?” Veronica said with a pout.

 

“I call you Princess!” Archie cried.

 

“Well, so far, Betty’s been called both a Goddess and a Queen in this place!”

 

“Empress. Call Ronnie Empress,” Jughead suggested. “Her Imperial Highness.”

 

“Jughead knows how,” Veronica said.

 

Archie hit Jughead’s shoulder. “Shut up, dude. You’re making me look bad!”

 

“It’s not my fault you don’t read good, Arch.”

 

They walked out through the front doors. Kevin followed, grinning like an idiot. 

 

“Have fun, ladies!” He chimed, disappearing behind the doors.

 

Cheryl appeared from the kitchen, having heard that last bit. “Oh, we will. I promise.”

 

***********

 

Cheryl’s instructor did Yoga, but before that, they did everything else, and the entire time, Betty was cursing Cheryl’s soul to hell.

 

Betty was certainly nimble, and she did have to do cardio to keep in shape, but her endurance was more ballet than drill sergeant. 

 

Cheryl’s instructor was a beast and Betty was dying.

 

Even Veronica looked winded, but she was doing much better by comparison. Betty wondered when they had the time to exercise this much.

 

By the time they finally got to Yoga, she was exhausted. It did, however, finally afford her some time to settle her thoughts and think about all her relationships, past and present, alive or dead, intact or estranged. 

 

She wondered about Kevin’s words, about never wanting to make people uncomfortable with the things that make her unhappy, and she realized that so much of that tendency had ruled her life.  

 

She recognized that perhaps the few times she had stood up and said she didn’t like how things were turning out, she had first fought bitterly with her sister, and then disowned her parents. 

 

She knew that she stood up for people--that much was certain. She became fierce and protective when her loved ones were hurt or in danger, but when it came to herself… she almost never really gave herself that level of love. 

 

She needed to dig deep and release all this pent up guilt and pain.  She was on the edge of having something truly beautiful and she had to do it with her arms wide open. 

 

She would have to find a way to broach all of this with Jughead. She had found that the moments after sex always left her more likely to speak her mind spontaneously, but she wanted this discussion to be deliberate, hitting all the points and saying it with clarity. It was perhaps best to point out that they needed to keep their clothes on while they talked about things.

 

That made her giggle. She was aware that they were fully capable of carrying on a conversation without immediately having sex, but what they had was still so fresh and exciting that it was only natural that they were so eager. She’d imagine that they’d eventually settle down to a less urgent pace, but for the moment, they were probably both a  _ little thirsty. _

 

Given all that, she could not help the pang of anxiety at the thought that this was finally going to get talked about to arguably the person who mattered most to her.

 

The instructor’s voice cut through her reverie she shifted to a classic warrior pose. Arms spread out, back leg firm, and front leg bending low.  

 

And of course she was suddenly cramping. Maybe she  _ had  _ been neglectful of leg work lately.

 

“What happened to ‘I’m a trained ballerina!’ Betty?” Cheryl asked, raising her voice mockingly.

 

Betty frowned as she laid on her back, the trainer pushing her leg up and towards her. Her flexibility allowed for a pretty deep stretch. “First of all, I was never a ballerina. ‘Ballerina’ is an earned title, like Director or CEO. I never got to that level. The highest I got was soloist, which is probably like, Senior Manager in your corporate terminology. Second of all, that bootcamp Jeanne Pierre put us through is not the same as ballet at all.”

 

Jeanne Pierre leaned over her leg, pressing her to the ground in a stretch.  _ “Respirer, maintenez, et un, deux, trois… sortez.” _

 

None of them save for Jeanne Pierre spoke french fluently. Betty was perhaps the most well off because of her familiarity with it as afforded by her ballet, but it still took some getting used to. 

 

_ Breathe, hold, one, two, three and release. _

 

Betty continued. “You didn’t tell me Jeanne Pierre here was going to Navy Seal the hell out of us.”

 

_ “Quell?”  _ ask Jeanne Pierre at the mention of his name.

 

She forced a smile as he raised her other leg. She felt his weight on her thigh and his hand on her glute. “Um, nothing.  _ Non.  _ It’s good!  _ B-Bien! _ ”

 

_ “Merci!” _

 

And it was of course in this position that the boys walked in on them in the basement studio. 

 

Jughead, who was drinking something from his water bottle, choked on his drink when he saw them, sputtering and heaving painfully.

 

“You okay, Jug?” Kevin asked.

 

“Damn, I should’ve been a Yoga instructor!” Reggie said.

 

Jean Pierre turned to them without removing himself from Betty. “‘Ello!”

 

“What are you doing, babe?” Jughead squeaked through his tears and coughing.

 

“Stretching. I got a cramp,” she said, wracking her brain for what french she picked up from the last couple of hours and her years of ballet.  _ “Merci,  _ Jeanne Pierre _.  _ Um,  _ J’ai fini _ .”

 

_ “Bien!”  _ Jeanne Pierre said, eagerly. He disengaged and helped Betty back to her feet.

 

“I coulda helped you with that,” Jughead grumbled.

 

She walked over to him and touched his nose with her finger. “You weren’t here.”

 

“My turn!” Veronica chimed.

 

Archie frowned. “I should leave.”

 

“Yeah, you should,” Cheryl said. 

 

“Is she trying to steal my wife?” Archie asked as he began to walk away with Reggie.

 

Reggie patted his back. “Yes, she is.”

 

_ “Au revoir,  _ Jeanne Pierre,” Kevin said flirtily, wiggling his fingers.

 

Charmingly friendly, Jeanne Pierre acknowledged his goodbye enthusiastically. He really was kind of a sweetheart when he wasn’t running them ragged with burpies and pushups.

 

Jughead tilted his blue gaze at her, she looked back, eyebrow arched.

 

“Now, I thought I was the only one around here who would ever hear you speak french in  _ that position,”  _ he said, half-jokingly.

 

“Stop,” she said, snaking her arms over his shoulders. “Your jealousy is endearing but unbecoming. You’re better than that.”

 

“I don’t know. I can be really really cute when I’m jealous. And I can stoop pretty damn low when I put my mind to it.”

 

“Ah, Jughead,” said Veronica as Jeanne Pierre leaned her into a perfect warrior pose. “Were you ever so extra as you are now? I swear, you are adorable.”

 

“See?” Jughead said. “She finds me cute already.”

 

Cheryl planted her hands on her hips. “Humph, I keep hearing about you and boxing but I’ve never seen you in action. You could’ve punched Reggie, but you didn’t, and you could’ve punched Jeanne Pierre but again, you didn’t. I’m beginning to think you’ve made this thing up.”

 

Jughead wagged a finger at her. “Uh-uh, Red. You are  _ not  _ going to bait me.”

 

Jeanne Pierre spoke something in french again, which no one understood, but he gestured for Cheryl, which made her fall into position and basically distracted her from snapping right back at Jughead. 

 

Jughead smirked and leaned over to whisper in Betty’s ear. “I’m going up to take a shower. Care to join?”

 

She bit her lip and nodded.  _ “Oui.” _

 

***************

  
  


Thursday and Friday proved to be great farm days. The sun was out, the sky was clear, and the soap factory was perfect for showcasing.

 

Archie and Veronica never woke up early enough for them to see the workings of a farm, but when they did get up, they were eager and energetic.

 

Over the course of two days, Betty and Jughead showed them all the farm had to offer, from the vegetable plot to the goats to the soaps and cheese. 

 

Veronica couldn’t believe it when they showed her the fence Jughead helped build and Archie was amazed at how the goats and llamas jumped joyfully when Jughead came around to say hi to them. 

 

The chickens were less joyful about Jughead, but there were about half a dozen newly hatched chicks scurrying about, and chicks were always adorable. Veronica loved them and they swarmed her when she brought them feed cupped in her hand.

 

“I’m going into town to pick up supplies,” Betty said, looking every bit a farm girl now in full jean overalls, a tank top, and a scarf around her head to wrap her braided hair. “Do you and Archie want to ride with me? Juggie, I know you have a lot of writing to catch up on so you don’t have to. We’ll be back before you know it.”

 

Jughead swore that the swathes of skin showing at the sides of those overalls at her waist was meant for him. Meant to tease him all day as she worked. He would have to write up a storm, because when he got his hands on her tonight, he was going to get busy for an entirely different reason. 

 

“Yeah, I’ll pass this time,” he said reluctantly.

 

“I’ll go!” Veronica said, enthusiastically. “You coming, babe?”

 

“I’ll stay with Jug, if you don’t mind,” Archie said, tapping Jughead’s shoulder. “Sneak in some time with my buddy before he gets lost in the weeds of his writing.”

 

Jughead was glad to hear it. It would be good to have some time with just the two of them. “V, while you’re in town, can you get me some smokes? Cheryl’s been bumming off me and I’m running low. I really should let her pay me for them.”

 

Betty smothered a laugh. “Just try it. I want to see what she’ll say.”

 

“She won’t use words. She will slit my goddamn throat.”

 

“Aw, Jug. She would never,” Veronica cooed. “She’s sweet as maple syrup if you know how to talk to her.”

 

Jughead scoffed. “Maybe if I had a vagina she’d let me see that side of her.”

 

“Jug!” Veronica gasped.

 

Betty giggled. 

 

He supposed he had picked up the habit of talking this way, living in this farm, where mentioning genitalia was just part of regular conversation. 

 

“If she weren’t such a rich babe, none of you will stand for that behavior,” Archie pointed out loftily. The fact that Cheryl was continuously flirting with Veronica had finally dawned on him and he was, in fact, getting a little jealous, primarily because Veronica enjoyed their clever repartee. 

 

Archie, being the frat boy that he was, had in the past resorted to physical solutions to resolve issues regarding the coveting of his wife. It was a constant occurrence because Veronica was, in fact, very attractive and powerful. Archie had made the news on a couple of occasions because he had punched one billionair here or an actor there, all because they had dared to proposition his wife. But with Cheryl, he was a little out of his depth. He couldn’t punch her and even if he dared to do such a heinous thing, they would probably find him stabbed to death on his bed the next morning and he knew it.

 

“She is such a good person, Archie,” Betty said in a sympathetic tone. “I know that’s not obvious but she is. And she may flirt with Veronica a lot, but that’s only because she knows it’s Veronica who gets to decide on whether it goes further than that or not.”

 

Jughead could already see the wheels in Archie’s head turning. This was an innovative thought to him--where he would actually let Veronica handle the situation. 

 

“And I would never sleep with her, honey,” Veronica said, extending her feeding hand for a couple of other chicks. “You know that. She’s full on lesbian and her skin crawls at the thought of a threesome with you. I know because I checked.”

 

“It’s what I figured!” Archie cried.

 

It was times like these that Jughead felt mortified at his best friends’ total lack of filter. That whole conversation, of course, implied that they’d  _ done  _ such a thing, which Jughead did not want to imagine at all. 

 

Judging by the reddening of Betty’s face, she totally got that.

 

“Um,” Betty began, gamely. “So, see, it seems like you have nothing to worry about, Archie!”

 

So when the ladies left to go to town, he and Archie hung out back on the river shore, throwing rocks to see who can make them skip the longest.

 

“Betty’s…” Archie began. “She’s amazing, bro. I mean, almost unreal.”

 

Jughead fully understood that sentiment. “Yep.”

 

“I mean, no offense, but what’s she doing all the way out here, hidden from the world? If she lived in the city, she would be Queen by now.”

 

Jughead gauged just how much he could tell Archie. He told some, like who her parents were and what it was like for her growing up, just to give some context on how this quiet farm life would appeal to her. Then he told Archie about Trev, and a little bit about everyone and everything else. 

 

Jughead left out the very personal stuff, like how Betty no longer spoke to her parents or the stories about how Polly got her thrown in jail.

 

He did tell Archie about Betty and her ballet training. Archie loved talking about that shit, not because he loved ballet, but because it implied other things.

 

“Dude,” Archie said, knowingly. “So is she hella flexible?”

 

Jughead chuckled. “Oh, yeah.”

 

“So on a scale of one to ten--”

 

Jughead groaned. There they went with the scales again.

 

“With one being  _ My Heart Will Go On  _ and ten being  _ Welcome to the Jun _ \--”

 

Jughead could not let him go on with that metaphor. “Stop, Arch. At the risk of you thinking that  _ Welcome to the Jungle  _ applies in any way—if you’re just asking me whether the sex is good, then I’d scale it at about eleven.”

 

Archie gave a whoop. “Frequency?”

 

If it were anyone else, he would’ve flipped his finger at them at the question, but this was Archie. They’d talked about each other’s pimples and confided in each other for their most embarrassing sexual experiences. He barely had any secrets from Archie.

 

“Like whenever possible,” Jughead replied. He had never been so horny in his life. 

 

He had had periods in his life when the thought of sex made him want to hide and layer up in flannels and sherpa jackets, but he couldn’t see that happening with Betty. The last time he got that way was around high school and briefly in college, and it happened when he was in some kind of emotional distress. It did line up with his family problems, first when he ended up in foster care and then later, when FP started reaching out from jail. Maybe that was part of why he didn’t mind hanging out with Archie and Veronica in spite of the fact that they seemed to attract a lot of people and attention. They socialized to well and so largely that it allowed him to sink into the shadows. And of course, as he got older, he found ways to sink into the shadows without anyone’s help.

 

Archie laughed. “What happened to my aloof and easy-going I-Don’t-Think-About-Sex-All-The-Time brother?”

 

Jughead couldn’t help but grin. He had to admit that sometimes, it felt almost like an obsession, the way he thought of ways to get Betty going, but mostly, Betty didn’t need anything elaborate. Neither of them did. They connected on an intellectual, physical, and yes, emotional level that translated so well in their sexual encounters. 

 

It certainly was never  _ just sex _ , but he was man enough to admit that what he was feeling had gone way past beyond “like.”

 

“You love her, dude?” 

 

Jughead sighed. “Yeah.”

 

It was always that simple with Archie. Not that he didn’t appreciate elaborate analysis with Veronica, but Archie was always great for the cliffnotes version.

 

Archie nodded, not questioning it in the least. Like Veronica, he knew that while love can grow over time, it could also hit you like a ton of bricks.

 

“I am so fucking gone it’s not even funny,” Jughead said, morosely. 

 

“So why the sad face, man? When I realized how in love I was with Ronnie, I asked her to marry me.”

 

Jughead chuckled. He knew the story. “You and Ronnie are two sides of the same coin. You asked her so soon because you knew she’d say yes. And honestly, if you had taken longer to ask her, she would’ve asked you herself. You’re  _ that  _ couple.”

 

“You and Betty aren’t.”

 

Jughead shrugged. “I’m broody. What can I say?”

 

“Betty’s the sun and you’re the moon. I get it, man. So maybe it’ll take you longer, but what’s weighing you down? Why the long face?”

 

“See, the dead husband thing.”

 

Archie nodded. “You afraid she’s not over him? She’s with you, now. It doesn’t seem like she’s letting her dead spouse get in the way of her happiness.”

 

“I’d like to think so, and she’d told me once how she’d never felt for anyone what she feels about me. I just assumed that also meant Trev, but there’s this nagging feeling…”

 

“You need to talk to her. And you need to tell her that you want to be there for her.”

 

“What if she tells me that she can’t let go of Trev’s memory?”

 

Archie shifted to face him. “See, what’s your expectation in all this? She will always have the memory of her husband. He was good to her, from what you’ve told me, so she will always remember him fondly. But the question you have to ask yourself is whether her feelings for you transcend that memory. She may never give up that part of her that loved Trev, but she doesn’t have to, see? If what you have with her is bright and burning, keeping the house warm and wonderful, then that little candle in her past is just something that makes the house a tiny bit more relaxing. Inviting.”

 

Jughead could hardly believe the wisdom rolling off Archie’s mouth. And then he began to realize that last part was particularly familiar because it was the lyrics to one of Archie’s louder, screamier songs.

 

“Dude, you just lifted that out of your song  _ House Fire!” _

 

Archie laughed hysterically and nodded. “Guilty! But it’s still totally true! Think about it!”

 

As shallow as Archie tended to be about a lot of things, he was never actually  _ dumb.  _ Sure, he could stand to read a few more books, but when Archie latches onto a story and turns it into a song, he can be pretty damn insightful. So yeah, he made some sort of sense. Then again, what did Archie know about losing your spouse and finding someone else again?

 

“Do you think I’ll freak her out? If I tell her how I feel about her?” Jughead finally asked. 

 

He’d never been on this end of the conversation before. He was a guarded guy and he had always believed love could be a choice, a sentiment akin to “you can choose your friends but you can’t choose your relatives.” He hadn’t been given much of a choice about loving his parents. That love was built in and so they had every power to break his heart. Friendship and romantic love--those he could choose, and he found friends in Archie and Veronica, and he had let them into his life. Romantic love had never crossed his mind, not even when he had girlfriends in the past. They were closer to “friends with benefits,” but exclusive. Romance only existed in novels.

 

Until now.

 

Now he was in it deep and he was afraid and confused and happy all at once. It was going to short circuit him for sure. 

 

Archie clapped him on the shoulder. “Dude, there’s only one way to find out.”

 

*********

 

Kevin invited them all to the local club, which was essentially about 45 minutes away towards the city. Though the clientele was predominantly LGBTQ, straight folk were most definitely welcome.

 

Betty could already see the look of horror on Jughead’s face. He was not, to her knowledge, a fan of clubs, bars, or lounges, which is probably why him bringing her to a dance club was particularly remarkable.

 

But this was one of those instances that he would be overruled, because Archie and Veronica were thrilled at the prospect of partying, and Cheryl was always game for mindless, naughty fun.

 

Jughead looked at Betty imploringly, perhaps hoping that she would decline and tell them she would be staying home with him. 

 

She gave him an apologetic smile. “There’s dancing…”

 

Jughead threw his head back and chuckled in surrender. “Fine.”

 

Veronica cheered. “Alright, Juggie! Anything for Betty, yes? This is going to be so much fun! What do we wear to this club, Kevin?”

 

“Oh, you better bring it, Veronica!” Kevin said. “Think gayer than gay. Think jailbait. Go crazy!”

 

“I love it!” Veronica said.

 

“Yeah, I have no clothes like that,” Jughead said. 

 

Kevin waved a hand at him. “Just go dark, Donnie. You always look great in your blacks and dark browns. Betty, hon, you look ethereal in white. You need to wear that dress. You know what I’m talking about! Cheryl, wear whatever the hell you want. You always look stunning.”

 

Kevin dished fashion advice all around before he left and told them he was going to come by at 7 so they can all leave together.

 

“I know I’m going to hate this,” Jughead grumbled as they all separated to get ready.

 

Betty giggled and took his hands. “It won’t be all bad.”

 

“Promise?”

 

She laughed and headed up the stairs to her room.

 

**********

 

Archie came to Jughead’s rescue at around 6:30. Archie and Veronica knew their best friend well, and when Jughead texted Archie from the other room to come help him, Archie’s reply was  **_What took you so long?_ **

 

In the end, Archie made him throw on his slim fitting black jeans, an ashy black button up blouse, and dark jacket.

  
  


Jughead was just relieved he felt comfortable and he was in monochrome.  Archie had gone for color, with loose maroon pants, a grey graphic shirt that showed off his workout body, and a yellow leather jacket. He almost always dressed to clubs like he was going to the VMAs. 

 

As they emerged from his room to wait downstairs, Betty came out of her bedroom. As Kevin had suggested, she was in white, and with her flesh tone heels, she looked stunning. The dress clung to the curves of her dancer’s body. The spaghetti straps that held it up almost seemed ornamental. And  _ that ass. _

  
  


“Baby,” Jughead gasped, rooted in place. He couldn’t find the words. He just stared at her, shaking his head and disbelieving that she was with him. How the hell did this happen? 

 

Archie slapped his back and jolted him out of his reverie. “Yeah, that’s my boy. Published writer. NYT bestselling author. So eloquent.”

 

Betty laughed as Jughead shot him a sardonic eyeroll. “Shut up, Arch.”

 

Betty sidled up to him, wrapping her arms around Jughead’s middle and tiptoeing to press her lips to his ear. “Hey handsome. If you dance with me later, I’ll do  _ whatever  _ you want,” she whispered.

 

He wasn’t thinking anything at the moment, but he was pretty sure he could come up with something as soon as the blood returned to his brain.

 

“You’re going to regret that,” he said, half-jokingly.

 

Archie grinned, heading down the stairs. “We all gonna have fun tonight!”

 

************

 

The club was loud, dark, and filled with beautiful, drunk people. The crowd was a mix, LGBTQ couples surrounding straight ones in perfect harmony. It was like a tiny utopia, and even in this place where anonymity was preferred, groups of people greeted Betty like she was the town mayor.

 

_ Everyone  _ there knew her, hugging her and kissing her. Several offered to buy her a drink. When she actually had to stop for conversation, she introduced him as her boyfriend, which he found particularly exhilarating.

 

She introduced Veronica and Archie as well, as her guests and Jughead’s dearest friends. Many recognized who Archie was and gushed about his music.

 

Ahead of them, Jughead saw Kevin and Cheryl waving them over to a table. He led them through the thrum of the crowd, his hand firmly intertwined with Betty’s.

 

When they got to the table, Veronica screamed that she loved this place.

 

“It’s hip hop night,” Kevin shouted. “One of my favorites!”

 

Cheryl nodded. “Me, too! Ladies will be twerking and I love watching a good ass dance.”

 

Jughead was feeling the tiniest bit overwhelmed. He’d been to clubs with Veronica and Archie countless times, but he always went with the full expectation of not having to socialize. With his best friends as buffer, he had the freedom to sink into the shadows and talk to no one. With Betty there, a mini-celebrity unto herself in this dance club, he did feel  _ some  _ kind of duty to be by her side, which would necessitate having to soak in some of the attention she seemed to be getting from everyone.

 

He felt arms wrapping around him and the warmth was immensely comforting. He smiled at Betty’s upturned face gratefully. “Thanks, babe.”

 

“You were tense. You need to relax a little. You’re among friends. Your  _ best  _ friends.”

 

He pushed some of the hair that had fallen on her eye. “More importantly, I’m with my girl.”

 

They kissed, slowly, and even in the crowded club, Jughead realized he didn’t care if everyone saw. In fact, he wanted people to see that he was with this amazing woman. It felt liberating. 

 

_ “Whoo!”  _ Veronica cried. “That kiss was steamy! More of that, please!”

 

Jughead shot her a mildly chastising look but didn’t comment. He was kissing Betty in public, after all.

 

Cheryl called a server over and ordered drinks for everyone, as well as several plates of food, which Jughead appreciated because they hadn’t had dinner.

 

“The employees know Cheryl,” Kevin explained. “She tips better than anyone. They will do anything she asks.”

 

“Betty may be mayor of this place, but I’m the bank roller,” Cheryl said haughtily. “I practically own this joint.”

 

They kept up with the animated conversation for a while. The food and drinks arrived and for while, Jughead concentrated on stuffing his face. 

 

He was halfway through the mozzarella & tomato basil medallions when he noticed Archie drinking Veronica’s wine. Jughead arched an eyebrow, a sneaking suspicion creeping into his brain.

 

Veronica caught his eye as she sipped some water and gave him a wink. He looked back on the last couple of days, every time Betty served some mixed drink or other and realized that Veronica had slyly taken a glass but never even took a sip. He realized how unusually needy Veronica and Archie had been the past month while he was gone and  _ knew  _ it wasn’t normal. They had  _ wanted to tell him in person... _

 

He glared at his best friends in his moment of realization. “Are you pregnant?” 

 

Veronica threw back her head and laughed. “OMG, Archie! You owe me a designer bag! I knew he would figure it out!”

 

Jughead couldn’t help but laugh. “Dude!”  He hurriedly told Betty the news and soon enough, he had Veronica in his arms and Archie in a hug, congratulating them both. He was so excited for them, a warmth spreading from his chest at the mere thought of Veronica and Archie with a little bundle in their arms, cooing over what would undoubtedly be a beautiful baby.

 

Betty gave them warm hugs and congratulations. Kevin and Cheryl were just as happy for them, even if Cheryl pretended she wasn’t.

 

A new round of music played and Kevin declared he needed to dance to it.  “BETTY! You, me, dancefloor!”

 

Betty kissed Jughead’s cheek. “I’ll be right back!”

 

Kevin whisked her off, throwing her arm over his shoulder in bold debonair and pulling her by the waist into the churning crowd. They danced like they had done this hundreds of times, bumping and grinding to a perfect rhythm. If Jughead didn’t know any better, he would swear Kevin was being inappropriate.

 

Jughead could watch Betty dance all day, no matter who her partner was. She was an amazing dancer. Period. 

 

Ballet, jazz, or hip hop, she knew how to move. She did a playful little twerk that certainly left him hot and bothered.

 

“That’s it, I’m dancing!” Cheryl cried, joining Betty and Kevin on the floor. They sandwiched Kevin, which was amazingly fun to watch. 

 

“God, they must have a blast on that farm everyday,” Veronica commented, grinning. “They are such fun people!”

 

“They’re characters, alright,” Jughead said. “I was enamored of the farm the first morning I woke up to it. Of course, it helped that the hostess was drop dead gorgeous.”

 

Archie nodded. “I get the appeal. You think you can live there?”

 

“That’s a discussion for another day,” Jughead said with a quirk of his mouth.   

 

The music changed, and it was the same song that Jughead and Betty danced to in that  _ other  _ club, except this one was the Justin Beiber version. 

 

He met Betty’s gaze and she curled her finger, beckoning him to join her.

 

“God, I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Jughead said, getting up from his seat. 

 

Veronica and Archie pushed him forward as they slid out of the booth, getting onto the dancefloor as he sauntered over to Betty. 

 

“We remember this song, yes?” Betty said in his ear as she slid her arms over his shoulders. 

 

He planted his hands over her hips. “I  _ still  _ dream about it.” 

 

She smiled seductively. “Good.” 

 

She turned, her back to him, and she reached overhead to run her fingers through his hair, her hips rolling to the music. His lips were on her neck in a second, his hands sliding  _ just  _ off those forbidden places, and he managed to move with her body with decent grace.

 

“Jughead can dance, yo!” Archie cried, laughing. 

 

Kevin, Cheryl, and Veronica seemed to find great amusement in it.

 

Jughead smirked, turning him and Betty around so his back was too them, effectively dissing them. Predictably, they booed and laughed, but he liked this angle just fine.

 

Betty was dancing  _ him,  _ and her hips moving and rubbing against his body was making him dizzy with desire. 

 

At one point, with her head thrown back on his shoulder and his teeth scraping her earlobe, he groaned painfully as her ass rolled firmly against the front of his pants, sending him into instant readiness. 

 

“We need to stop doing this,” he begged. 

 

“Why?” she breathed, craning her neck to kiss the underside of his jaw. She took his hand and pressed it just beneath her breasts.

 

“Because we can’t just up and go home,” he growled, grinding his hips against her backside.

 

“Who said we had to go home?” she asked.

 

It was like a light switch turning on, a connection running electric between his brain and libido. 

 

Bathroom? No, he had a better idea. He had driven Archie’s Escalade there and its keys sat heavily in his pocket. His best friends would just have to forgive him for defiling that car.

 

“Come with me,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her off the dance floor and out of the club.

  
  
  


Jughead and Betty stumbled into the blessedly spacious black SUV. The heavily tinted windows were perfect, and getting into the back seat wasn’t a problem even for him with his long legs. He had barely slammed the door shut and manually turned off the overhead light when he had his hands under her skirt, pushing the fabric up her thighs while his lips followed in their wake.

 

He was so incredibly wound up that his dick was giving him physical pain. 

 

Fortunately, Betty was in no mood to take it slow. “Take my panties off. Off, Juggie.”

 

He pulled them off hurriedly, his lips crashing on hers and their tongue tangling hungrily while his fingers touched her sensitive center. 

 

“God, baby,” he gasped. “You’re so ready.”

 

“I want you inside me. Now, Forsythe!”

 

“Yes, ma’am!” He breathed, undoing his pants and pushing it down in record time.

 

He had barely pushed them past his ass when she pulled him to her. His weight had him sliding into her and without pause, he began to thrust his hips to a cadence.

 

Her legs tightened around him, the heel of her shoes digging into the skin of his back, but he didn’t care. She felt so wet, warm, and tight around him that he was fast losing any form of reasonable thought. 

 

She sucked on the skin beneath his ear and ordered him to go  _ harder.  _

 

He made no arguments, pushing so hard into her than the whole vehicle began to rock, leaving little to the imagination of anyone outside who might be seeing it.

 

Betty’s voice, her desperate whines, and her throaty moans made him want to go rougher and deeper. The primal need snaked into his head and moved his body. He grabbed her thigh, fingers digging into her flesh, and drove his hips faster. The truck shook madly and Betty was screaming for him not to stop.

 

“This so good, baby,” he rasped, desperately.

 

_ “So good,  _ Juggie,” she agreed, breathing heavily through her words. “So fucking good.”

 

They kept going, their loud moans mingling in the small space. The windows fogged up and there were scuff marks of Betty’s heels in the ceiling of the car, but Jughead was beyond caring.

 

When she cried out his name repeatedly, yelling that she was coming hard, he was done for. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, his groan coming from deep inside him, and he emptied his load into her in the most spectacular orgasm to ever grace his life. 

 

When their orgasms faded and they lay slumped on the seat, with him still inside her, he took a moment to enjoy the post-coital haze before realizing, with suddenly growing horror, that he had completely forgotten to put on a condom.

 

“Fuck,” he hissed, looking up to meet her gaze.

 

“That was amazing,” she gushed, kissing him fitfully. Gratefully.

 

He didn’t have the heart to kill the mood, because it  _ had  _ been amazing. Car sex was definitely a first for him. He had never been so consumed by someone that he couldn’t wait to get them to a nice appropriate place before nailing them.

 

“Betty,” he whispered. “Baby, that was fantastic, but please… please tell me you’re on the pill.”

 

Her brows began to lift in dawning realization. “Oh… oops!”

 

He was partly glad that she seemed so much calmer about this lapse of judgement. Maybe it was that calm that made him stop and realize just how un-scared he was of the prospect of getting her knocked up. 

 

The thought was a little disarming, but if he really thought about it, it wasn’t like he was seventeen, or even twenty-one. He was almost thirty. Some guys had  _ two  _ kids at his age.

 

He met her gaze, and seeing that his silence was making her look apprehensive, he shook himself out of his reverie.

 

“Oops?” he repeated, chuckling mildly. “Um, okay…”

 

She sighed, smiling. “I’ll take a Plan B. I have some at home.”

 

His eyebrow quirked. “You do?”

 

“At the rate we were going, this was bound to happen. So I bought some in the town pharmacy the other day.”

 

He sighed with relief, pulling out of her. There were tissues that came in handy, and as he helped her straighten her outfit, he kissed her lovingly, cupping her face in his hands.

 

She helped him right himself, next. 

 

“I should pay for that Plan B,” he said, semi-shyly. “It’s only right.”

 

She grinned. “You get the next one.”

 

“Next one?” He laughed. 

 

“Well, when you can’t seem to control yourself--”

 

He caught her waist and tickled her. She shrieked and fought him off, swinging the car door open.

 

The rush of cold air felt good. It had gotten so humid in the truck that it could’ve developed its own eco system. A few bystanders clapped and whistled as they emerged, confirming Jughead’s earlier suspicions that their activities hadn’t gone unnoticed. 

 

Reluctantly, Jughead went with it, waving lazily to acknowledge their audience. Soft laughter rippled around them and Betty giggled, possibly impressed by how well he was taking it.

 

He shut the Escalade door, locked it, and taking Betty’s hand, they headed back inside.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Archie and Veronica in the next chapter!


	10. Soaking in the Flavor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trev had wanted babies. He had wanted them ASAP, but she had told him she wanted to wait. She needed a couple more years to enjoy what they had, to see where she could take the farm with him, to love this entire place before infusing it with their children. It hadn’t been an emotional discussion. They were newly married, she was in her early twenties, and Trev probably figured that he had time to convince her sooner, and that if he couldn’t, she would get around to it eventually, because they both knew they wanted kids. It was just a question of when.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I would very much like to thank everyone who has expressed how much they enjoy this story, whether it's by kudos or reviews. I am grateful that you took the time. 
> 
> Secondly, lots of stuff will happen in this chapter--things that you've been asking about. Hope you like it!

 

_ Excerpt from  _ **_Harvest to Home_ ** **,** **_Soaking in the Flavor_ **

 

_ “When you marinate your food, the process does most of the work for you. When you mix spices in a brew and put protein of any kind to sit in it, the flavor it infuses turns it into something completely different. _

 

_ I’m especially fond of putting marinated meats on grills, whether it’s American barbecue, Korean marinade, Vietnamese flavoring, or Filipino sauces, I believe grilling without ONE marinated dish is wasting a proper, wood burning grill. _

 

_ For the next few days, I will be offering up marinades that can spice up and diversify any barbecue. I promise that the resulting flavors--and grill-side conversation--will be amazing...” _

 

_ \--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast _

  
  
  


Betty looked at the Plan B pill packaging and noted how it came in such a huge box. There were two pills inside, but the packaging took up most of the space. Any other medication, there could’ve easily been 12 pills in there. Not Plan B. 

 

Plan B was emergency contraception. It’s a Big Deal. It deserves to be packaged like the Queen of all Pills. Cancer treatment pills did not come this way.

 

Sighing, she pulled a pair of scissors from her kitchen drawer and snipped the plastic open. 

 

It was late. 2:30 in the morning. They had gotten back from the club about twenty minutes ago but the house was already silent. 

 

Jughead, who had  _ finally  _ loosened up after their romp in the SUV, had a few drinks on him by the time they were done, mostly supplied by Archie and Cheryl. Most of them were drunk. Veronica and Betty were stone cold sober—because Veronica was expecting and Betty was kind of hoping not to be. She skipped the libations, thinking about the medication she had to take later and its efficacy if she had too much alcohol in her system. She wasn’t even tipsy, so when everyone piled into the SUV, Betty took the driver’s seat and Veronica relaxed in the passenger seat.

 

Jughead and Archie were pretty funny, drunk. And Betty prayed the entire trip that Veronica wouldn’t ask her why Jughead kept apologizing to Archie about the SUV, or why Archie kept seeing the face of Santa Clause (of all things) on the ceiling of the car where Betty’s shoes, earlier, must’ve left the scuff marks. 

 

Kevin and Cheryl were out, snoring five minutes into the ride. 

 

So of course, after everyone got herded into the house, and after Betty turned down Jughead’s hilariously drunken propositions, everyone was passed out in bed, except for her.

 

She needed to drink a pill that would prevent pregnancy, because she and Jughead had been too horny for each other to remember to use a condom.

 

She looked at the naked pill in her hand and was wholly unprepared for the barrage of thoughts and emotions that came to her.

 

The first thought being that she had to get back on the pill. If she was going to have this intensely sexual relationship with Jughead, it was imperative that she take such precautions.

 

The next thought being the memory of Jughead telling her that they had forgotten the condom and she had said “Oops!” like an idiot.

 

She realized how completely blase she had been, and it wasn’t just that she knew there was a Plan B. It was because the thought of having Jughead’s baby wasn’t the least bit bothersome to her. She had realized, at that moment, that having a baby with Jughead  _ wasn’t a bad idea at all. _

 

The realization had hit her like a ton of bricks, and it brought her squarely back to the time she had this discussion with Trev, about how they should  _ wait. _

 

Trev had wanted babies. He had wanted them ASAP, but she had told him she wanted to wait. She needed a couple more years to enjoy what they had, to see where she could take the farm with him, to love this entire place before infusing it with their children. It hadn’t been an emotional discussion. They were newly married, she was in her early twenties, and Trev probably figured that he had time to convince her sooner, and that if he couldn’t, she would get around to it eventually, because they both knew they wanted kids. It was just a question of when.

 

So when Trev died, one of her many thoughts were a mixture of  _ Thank God  _ they didn’t have any kids and  _ Maybe Should’ve  _ had that kid after all. She would’ve been pregnant and alone. Or maybe alone with a newborn. Either way, she would have a child without its father, and that could have pushed her over the edge of depression. Having no child with Trev after he died had perhaps been a bigger relief than a regret.

 

That had been with her husband, so the thought of  _ not minding  _ having a child with her new boyfriend was particularly jarring. Sure, she was older. Maybe it was some biological imperative? But she was only twenty-eight. She was still  _ young _ . 

 

She shoved the pill in her mouth and downed it with a gulp of water.

 

It was done. This baby, if anything, was  _ not  _ happening. 

 

She put her glass in the dishwasher and headed back up to the rooms. She went directly to Jughead’s room. Drunk or not, she wanted to be beside him. 

 

When she sank into the sheets of his bed, she was surprised when he rolled over and draped himself over her, tucking his arm around her waist and tangling his legs with hers. She felt him kiss the top of her head.

 

“Where were you, baby?” he murmured, speech slightly slurred.

 

She giggled softly. “Oh, I just needed a drink of water.”

 

“Did you take The Pill?”

 

She was surprised he remembered, but then again, she suspected it had permeated his mind  _ before  _ he tossed back all those tequila shots.

 

“I did,” she replied. “The deed’s done.”

 

He sighed, pulling her even closer. “Maybe it won’t work.”

 

Her brows furrowed. What did he even mean by that? Was he worried? Or was he hopeful? 

 

More importantly, what answer did she prefer?

 

She looked over her shoulder at him, wanting to explore his statement, but then he was out cold again, snoring softly into the pillow. 

 

“Jesus,” she hissed to herself. 

 

This was way too much fuss over one night of unprotected sex.

 

*******************

  
  


Betty woke up later than usual, but still early enough that her chickens weren’t rioting and her goats weren’t furious. 

 

In the kitchen, she got breakfast ready, along with some hangover potions that would surely come in handy, and a bottle of Advil.

 

She was making the breakfast of champions this morning. Pancakes, sausages, bacon, scrambled eggs, and some fruit, in case the grease from the processed meats were too much.

 

Veronica, predictably, came down first, and she was well-rested and fresh. She happily dug into the pancakes, bacon, and eggs, ecstatic that she was eating for two. 

 

Betty loved her joy. She watched Veronica’s happiness with pure affection. 

 

“Juggie’s definitely going to be its Godfather,” Veronica said. “He’ll be Godfather to all our kids, really. He’ll be amazing at it. He is  _ so good  _ with kids.”

 

Betty believed it. She had seen him with the teens and they were so drawn to him. The other day, the books had arrived from his publisher and he had signed every single one with a personal note to each kid. He had  _ remembered  _ all of them, their stories, and their personalities. She had helped him pack them into their respective mailing boxes and called the UPS guy to send them back out. She had marvelled at how dedicated he was to letting these kids know that they had a friend in him. 

 

Smiling at Veronica’s too true assessment of Jughead, she got up to heat some pie.

 

“It’s breakfast, I know, but apple pie ala mode won’t hurt, yeah?” Betty said. 

 

Veronica laughed and nodded. “I like the way you think. Yes to pie, please!”

 

As Veronica ate, Betty had some pancakes herself. She listened to Veronica recount some tales of mayhem and mischief she, Archie, and Jughead had had.  All three of them had become the best of friends.

 

“It was Juggie who brought us all together,” she said. “Archie was Jughead’s best friend from childhood and I became his friend by circumstance, but it turns out that we all enjoyed each other’s company.”

 

Betty leaned over the table. “Did you always know that Archie would be the one?”

 

Veronica scoffed. “Hell, no. I mean, I had always been attracted to Archie because he’s a good looking guy, but I always saw him as some bro dude. He was woman crazy and he never committed to anyone. So he and I were just friends for a long time. I knew all his shit and he knew all my shit, and it just seemed stupid to date him.”

 

“And so when did you  _ want  _ to date him?”

 

“I guess it was the year he suddenly  _ stopped  _ dating other women and he started paying more attention to me. Like he began to realize that he had been looking for love in all the wrong places and  _ saw  _ me for the first time. I kind of began to realize that he was actually growing up and I developed feelings for him. The day Archie and I kissed the first time, I knew I had fallen hard. A week later, we married.”

 

Betty stared at her, slack jawed.  _ “A week?” _

 

Veronica nodded. “Five years and going strong now! I just knew he was the right guy.”

 

“What did Jughead say?” The question came unbidden, and Betty supposed it was just the whole trio connection that summoned it to her lips. 

 

“Oh, he actually didn’t say much more than congratulations. He knew both of us so well that none of this surprised him. At all. Juggie’s very observant. You might have noticed that.”

 

Betty nodded. “And you and Jughead never…”

 

“God, no. Never,” Veronica said with a shudder. “He was my foster brother. Felt like a real brother soon enough after he first moved in.”

 

“I feel like there’s a story there somewhere.”

 

Veronica nodded. “So when he moved in with us, he naturally got his own room. My parents and I were so proud of ourselves. He has an entire room to himself! It’s one of our best rooms! He’s going to love it!  We meant so well, but we didn’t consider how it might make him feel. Jughead was clearly overwhelmed by the size of it and I just thought that one good night’s sleep on the soft, $2,000 mattress and he’d be fine. It wasn’t until a few days later that I realized he was bunking in the walk-in closet floor, just so he can fall asleep.”

 

Betty clutched at her heart. It hurt.

 

“I swear, it was like finding a lost kitten in the rain, B. My perception of reality changed then and my stone cold heart became mush, so the next few nights, I didn’t care if my parents got mad. I just kept him company in his bed. I’d lie down beside him and we’d talk until he fell asleep.”

 

Betty could not help but reach out to take Veronica’s hand. She loved this woman already. 

 

Veronica continued. “If you think about it, that was kind of the perfect scenario for him and I falling in love, because it’s like all the ingredients of a romantic drama, right? But not a single spark flew. Even my parents eventually grew unconcerned about us spending time in his room. That platonic energy was just radiating from both of us. Eventually, we got so comfortable with each other that I was texting him to buy me tampons at the local grocery and he was texting me his underwear size when I was at the mall.”

 

Betty could  _ not  _ imagine having no sparks with Jughead, but considering Veronica and Jughead were  _ so  _ different, maybe it wasn’t such a surprise. Jughead and Veronica loved each other because they were both decent, good, and loving people.  _ That’s  _ what they had in common. Anything else and they were polar opposites.

 

“Besides,” Veronica went on. “He was kind of a  _ very  _ late bloomer.” 

 

“Late, how?”

 

“He showed no interest in women or sex until he was 18, and even then, he would have periods of time when the thought of touching anyone intimately made his skin crawl. I swear, he would be wearing a shirt, sweater, and a jacket in the middle of July, like he was layering to make sure he wouldn’t accidentally get naked. Honestly, I thought he was gay, particularly because he didn’t show any interest in me.”

 

Betty smirked. “I get that.” It wasn’t conceit. It was just fact. Veronica Lodge-Andrews was so attractive that men and women crushed on her by default. 

 

Veronica shrugged. “Hi layering was like armor, because no matter what Jug says, he’s a total smoke show. That brooding, writer vibe he has going? Not pretend, by the way. It’s totally real. Add that to his complete disinterest in women and it drove them insane.  If they only knew that their overt sexual overtures had him running for the hills. He hid out until he was 18, and he might have held out longer if his own body hadn’t probably gone and said ‘Okay, this is ridiculous. Get this sexual energy out of your system,’ so I guess he did it with this girl—I couldn’t even remember her name. Then that relationship was over and his libido hibernated through most of college. He eventually normalized in his mid-20s, I think. He had sexual relationships, a couple of them relatively serious, but for a guy who  _ looks like that?  _ I’d say his sex life was shockingly average.”

 

This was so strange to Betty, because Jughead  _ always  _ wanted to have sex with her, and even before they kissed that first time, Jughead oozed sex appeal  _ to her.  _ He certainly never showed signs that sex repulsed him. Then again, she welcomed all sexual orientations in her home. Queer was certainly part of the spectrum. Jughead seemed to fall in that category if he was even in one.

 

She arched an eyebrow in Veronica’s direction, wondering if Veronica was telling her all this to lay it all out for her in some form or other. “So… I’m kind of trying to figure out why you’re telling me all this.”

 

Veronica shrugged. “Different things, I guess. I want you to realize that he doesn’t just go with  _ any  _ girl, maybe? He’s so different with you, so flirty and charming. You might think he’s like that with other women. He’s so not. I just have to point that out. I’ve been looking out for him since I found him sleeping in that closet. I’m feeling protective. Must be the hormones, too.”

 

“Are you going to tell me that if I hurt him—?”

 

Veronica scoffed. “Please. I don’t have to tell you that. You already know, and I have no reason to think you’d ever be so cruel, B. Just know that Jughead will go to the ends of the earth for you. He is like that with us, his best friends. He will do even more for you, for sure.”

 

Betty had no doubt in her mind about the veracity of that. 

 

She and Veronica were done with breakfast by the time the others began to shamble down the stairs. Kevin was so out of it still that he actually missed a step on the stairs and slid down the rest of the way on his butt, which was equal parts concerning and hilarious.

 

Cheryl gave them all hell, for sure, but the rest were so hungover that they didn’t have the wherewithal to fight back. Jughead, who was usually the first to shut her down, could only groan that it was too early.

 

Betty passed her hangover cure, which was really just apple and cranberry juice, with a hint of peppermint, and Advil around for all sufferers and just waited for it to take effect. She expected that everyone would feel better in a few minutes, especially after they’d had their scrambled eggs. 

 

When after several minutes, Jughead tugged at her arm and asked her tenderly to sit by him, she knew the treatment was taking effect. 

 

Slowly, the revellers began to partake of the food in front of them, and soon enough, conversation became more animated. The zombified groaning had stopped and people were actually smiling.

 

“What’s the date?” Cheryl suddenly asked. 

 

“September 16,” Betty said, picking at some of the fruit she had laid out.

 

Cheryl cursed, rolling her eyes. “My time here is coming to an end. I have to go back to work on Wednesday.”

 

This wasn’t surprising to Betty, as Cheryl had already stayed longer than she was wont, but it did occur to her that with Veronica and Archie leaving on  _ Tuesday,  _ she and Jughead would be the only ones left in the house by Thursday, and that made her equal parts excited and anxious. 

 

Cheryl’s excuse, however, was disingenuous. Cheryl never has to be  _ at  _ work. She did most of her work remotely and she usually worked office appearances to  _ her  _ schedule. Essentially, nobody can tell her what to do. 

 

But Betty didn’t say anything, opting to talk to Cheryl later on in private.   

 

The rest of the day was spent lounging in the house and around the farm. Jughead did a lot of writing while Archie and Veronica bothered him on occasion.  Archie was still feeling hungover, so he didn’t really want to do much of anything else.  

 

Betty finished a few more chores around the farm, and as late afternoon approached, proposed a little cookout. She set up a picnic table and a grill out back with Kevin and invited Farmer John and Reggie to attend the impromptu barbeque.

 

Reggie brought some fishing rods this time, and the boys and Veronica sat at the dock, casting their lines, some terribly, and some successfully. 

 

Betty had her meats and vegetables marinated and ready. There was bread, salad, and drinks, and of course there was pie for dessert. As the food cooked on the grill, Betty sat by Cheryl and asked her, quietly, why she was  _ really  _ leaving the farm. 

 

“I realize you’d be lost without me, but really, hon,” Cheryl huffed.

 

Betty had long given up forcing Cheryl to say anything she didn’t want to reveal. She just didn’t want Cheryl thinking that nobody cared.  So she put her hands up and shrugged. “Okay.”

 

“But if you insist…” 

 

Betty tried her best not to roll her eyes as Cheryl continued. 

 

“I’m meeting Sabrina in the city. She wants to talk.”

 

Betty paused to think about this. Something simmered in her chest, and she realized it was annoyance. “Sabrina,” she said a little testily. “The one who dumped you in Paris at the Louis Vuitton and cheated on you  _ with a man?” _

 

Cheryl looked on with a steely expression, though her eye twitched very slightly. “She made a mistake. It was  _ dick.  _ How serious could it have been?”

 

Betty pursed her lips. She suddenly was in no mood to make jokes. “She broke up with you  _ after  _ you bought her a $3,000 bag, Cher. She’s a gold-digging bitch.”

 

“So she has her flaws,” Cheryl said with a shrug.

 

Betty scowled. “Flaws? Are you kidding me?”

 

“$3,000 is nothing to me. It’s an itty bitty thing! And really, she calms me down. I need someone like that in my life.”

 

“Oh, sure. All those energy crystals and fucking Oolong teas.” Betty was livid. She didn’t often get angry, as Kevin so clearly pointed out, but she  _ was  _ fiercely protective of her loved ones. “If I ever see that girl, I will kick her in the fucking box and drag her to the ground by her peroxide blonde mop.”

 

“I would  _ never  _ let her use peroxide. Do you hear me, Betty Cooper?”

 

Betty wasn’t through. “I don’t care how many cute freckles she has on her nose and whatever New Age bullshit she spouts to calm your chi, but she is the worst person. I can’t believe you’re even breathing in her general direction.”

 

“Betty, as a person who set her ex’s car on fire in the middle of Times Square, I respect your blood lust for people who wrong the ones you love,” Cheryl said through grit teeth. “But Sabrina said she was sorry and maybe an apology is all I need. Sometimes you just have to go with your gut.”

 

Betty made a sound of disgust. “For someone who can be so vicious, you’re so gullible with love. That woman is going to hurt you again!”

 

Cheryl looked like she was going to pull out a garotte and strangle Betty with it.  “See, that’s the difference between you and me. When it comes to relationships, I just go for what I want. The details are roadblocks to my happiness.”

 

She shot Cheryl a sidelong glare, but her eyes fell on the group on the jetty, all of which averted their eyes all at the same time. 

 

_ Great. They certainly heard  _ that.

 

Jughead, in the distance, suddenly cast a line into the water with perfect grace.  His actions calmed her anger and she sat back down on her seat with a sigh. 

 

He had a knack for these things--fishing, shooting, farming. Her.

 

He had a knack for  _ her.  _

 

Veronica glanced in their direction and she waved, giving her pole to Reggie and heading over.

 

She checked the grill and waited a bit more before flipping the meat. 

 

Veronica joined them at the picnic table. “How are you gorgeous ladies doing?” She sat beside Cheryl, entwining their arms. “Everything alright here?”

 

Cheryl and Betty shot each other glares before their respective bitchy moods dissolved and they muttered “Fine,” at the same time.

 

“We were just waiting for you to ditch those dudes for us,” Cheryl said in a flirty tone. “How are you feeling, mama?”

 

Veronica grinned. “Tired, but happy. This is the most relaxing place.”

 

Betty noticed Veronica throwing a glance at the boys and giving them a subtle nod, and by “boys”, she meant Jughead. No doubt, he had sent Veronica to referee.

 

Cheryl nodded, oblivious, or preferring to be. “I love it here. Betty makes everything beautiful and classy.”

 

Veronica gave Betty’s arm a squeeze. “It really is beautiful, Betty. Your house is gorgeous.”

 

“Thanks, ladies,” she replied, blushing.

 

“You’re an interior designer, yes?” 

 

Betty could only figure that Jughead told her. She nodded. “That was the plan. I just do it for my house now. The soap, cheese, and B&B are my passions and my work.”

 

“New York City would toast the hell out of you if you ever decide to move there.”

 

She gave Veronica a plaintive smile. “Been there. Done that. I realized early on that it’s not the life I want. I like to be able to wake up early in the morning and tend to things--make things that I love, wear dresses with flowers in my hair when I’m feeling dainty and get dirty in the mud when I’m feeling playful. Sun in my face and all that.”

 

“Be a farm girl who speaks Spanish and French,” Cheryl drawled. “This girl is unreal.”

 

Betty shrugged. “Probably my mother’s influence, still. She’s something. You know that, Cher.”

 

Cheryl’s expression became steely. “Oh, yeah. I still maintain that Jason and Polly swooped in and saved each other.”

 

She wasn’t wrong. While the Coopers were notorious for demanding perfection from their progeny, the Blossoms were their own brand of crazy.

 

“Your mother’s Alice Cooper, the news anchor, right?” Veronica asked.

 

Betty nodded. “That’s her.”

 

“Was she tough on you growing up?”

 

Betty sighed. “Oh, yeah. Sent me and my siblings to the best private schools, demanded straight As, and pushed us to get those extra-curriculars. My brother and I were able to keep up, mostly. My sister, Polly, caved to a certain degree, but she made it by the skin of her teeth. Now she lives a life of leisure married to Cheryl’s twin brother.”

 

Cheryl grinned. “Jason likes that Polly’s the perfect high society wife.”

 

Betty honestly wished that Polly would do more with her advantages in life, that her sister would pursue a higher purpose, but she tried not to be  _ too _ judgemental. God knows, their mother did that well enough. She couldn’t exactly blame Polly for her choices. She wanted a good life for her and her kids and that was Polly’s priority.

 

“Jason takes care of them very well, Cheryl,” Betty said, kindly. “I’m glad Polly makes him happy.”

 

Veronica arched an eyebrow, and Betty got the feeling that Veronica saw right through her feelings on the matter. She did not comment on it, though, which Betty appreciated. 

 

“So your mother wanted you to be…?” Veronica waggled her head thoughtfully, prompting Betty to continue.

 

“Everything but a rancher’s wife, I suppose,” Betty said. “My deceased husband. He bred horses and raised cattle for beef.”

 

Veronica nodded. “I’m sorry about your husband. I can’t imagine. I’d be devastated if anything happened to Archie.”

 

Betty nodded. “It’s alright. It’s been six years. It was hard at first but it got better. Now I’m just grateful for--” she paused “--well, for many things, really.”

 

Cheryl played with Veronica’s hair. “You kick ass, Betty. We’re all very proud of you.”

 

Betty knew her parents weren’t very proud of her, but she couldn’t even be mad at that anymore. She was happy, even with those bouts of loneliness that had permeated her life the last six years. She had everything she needed and wanted right here, and with Jughead showing up in her life, she had a very good feeling things were only getting better. “Thanks, Cher.”

 

Betty tended the grill and when she looked up, she caught Jughead watching her. She cast him a smile and he grinned. He set his pole in one of the holders and headed in her direction. He stuck the cigarette he had between his lips as he walked the distance to her. 

 

She enjoyed watching that walk, that laidback saunter of his hunched shoulders, hands in the pocket of his black jeans. His worn burgundy shirt was loose, yet unable to hide the definition of his tattooed arms. He was a tall guy who could easily be mistaken as nothing but lanky, but God, she knew what was under those clothes.

 

When he got to their picnic area, he extinguished the cigarette in the ashtray. 

 

“Locker room talk was getting thick over there,” he said, getting behind Betty at the grill. His hand squeezed her ass and she giggled.

 

“Jesus, Jughead,” Veronica groaned. “You weren’t even subtle about that.”

 

He shrugged. “Do I have to be? You all know she has me whipped.”

 

“I  _ do not  _ have you whipped.”

 

“He’s whipped,” Veronica said. 

 

Cheryl snorted. “Dude like Jughead probably likes that shit. I know what I’m giving Betty for Christmas. Handcuffs and a blindfold.”

 

“Cher!” Betty cried, her cheeks burning. Maybe the fact that Jughead wasn’t protesting--grinning, in fact, with his tongue sticking out goofily between his teeth, sent her body thrumming and set her face on fire. “Juggie!” she said more quietly.

 

“Why wait ‘til Christmas?” he murmured in her ear.

 

_ God, this man. _

 

Cheryl and Veronica’s eyes rolled at exactly the same time and they didn’t even hear what Jughead had said. Betty seriously thought that if Veronica weren’t married to Archie, there would be a love match between the two women.

 

“Go make yourself busy by setting the table and staying out of trouble,” she told him, bumping him with her shoulder.

 

“It’s not going to look as pretty as any of your settings,” he said, rubbing her hips slowly up and down. 

 

“Are you trying to get out of setting the table Jughead Jones?”

 

“I’m trying to do  _ this  _ instead of  _ that,”  _ he said, placing a kiss on the crook of her neck and shoulder. 

 

She smiled and closed her eyes, leaning into his kiss. She could get used to this, having someone who constantly wanted her. She craned her neck to put her lips to his ear. “Set the table and we can play later. I may not have handcuffs, but I do have a lot of scarves…”

 

He pulled back and stared at her a moment, eyebrow raised in mild surprise. He looked like he couldn’t believe what she just said.

 

She didn’t want to take it back. Her gaze locked with his, she added, “You heard me.”

 

At that moment, it seemed to click in his head.

 

“Fuck,” he hissed, making a mad dash for the house to get the plates and cutlery.

 

“Where is he going in such a hurry?” Veronica asked as they watched him go.

 

“I told him to set the table,” Betty said, innocently. “He’s getting the plates.”

 

Cheryl arched an eyebrow. “Wow. He  _ is  _ whipped.”

 

“Oh, he’s just a sweetheart,” Betty said, grinning madly to herself.

 

************

 

The downside to being tied and blindfolded, of course, was that she didn’t get to see Jughead naked. She didn’t get to enjoy the art on his skin or the lovely lines of his muscles. She couldn’t see his face, which she delighted in so much. She couldn’t see his eyes, which delighted in  _ her.  _

 

But with that sense of sight gone, there were all these other senses that came alive under his touch. She felt the subtle nuances of the skin on his fingers, the velvety scrape of his tongue, and the gentle suction of his lips. She could decipher the messages in the tone of his voice, not just the words he was speaking. She could smell that hint of his cologne mixing with the sandalwood scent of his skin, and she could taste the wine in his mouth, with that hint of cigarette.

 

He hadn’t even removed her panties yet and she was a panting mess on his bed, pleading, demanding from him, more.

 

The deep chuckle that reverberated from his lips to the breast upon which it was capped traveled through her body, pooling between her legs and giving her an ache that made her whimper and squirm.

 

She remembered Jughead’s earlier words, just before he put the blindfold over her eyes. “You need to tell me if it’s too much. Tell me and it stops.”

 

“It won’t be too much.”

 

“Can be,” he told her, tenderly. “Safeword?”

 

She smirked. “Shiny bubbles?”

 

“How can you be so cute and sexy at the same time?”

 

She winked, and he kissed her, deeply. 

 

When they separated, his breathing was ragged. “Betts, there isn’t going to be pain, I promise, but if you think it’s too weird, we can stop. No questions. Okay?”

 

She nodded, understanding and anticipation making her want this. Then he blindfolded her, tied her wrists to the headboard, and started the sweet torture.

 

His ministrations had been so far gentle, but it was already driving her crazy with lust. 

 

When his lips traveled lower down her body, she grew impatient, hissing  _ yes _ like a mantra, but when he lingered on sucking on the skin of her hips, her inner thighs, and everywhere but  _ there _ , she found herself cursing his good name. 

 

He tutted maddeningly. “Such language, Elizabeth.”

 

She was vaguely aware that he had never called her by that name before, but she was so far gone in her haze of desire that she wasn’t sure if she cared.

 

“Maybe this is too much for you,” he said in a teasing tone, rubbing her knee oh-so-innocently. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”

 

She found herself holding back a sob of frustration. He was enjoying this and it was driving her insane. “Juggie,” she whined, almost pathetically. “Please, I’ll be good. I promise. I promise…”

 

“We’ll see,” he said, softly in her ear. His teeth caught her earlobe and scraped lazily against it, causing her whole body to shudder involuntarily.

 

When his mouth covered hers, his tongue preventing any form of angry speech, she responded hungrily. If this kiss was all she was going to get, then she was going to get as much of it as she can. So when his fingers slipped under her panties to circle her folds, she was so close that she begged him not to stop. 

 

“Oh, baby,” he gasped, cradling her head in one hand, kissing her deeply, while the other touched her to completion. 

 

Her hips bucked into his hand, her cries drowning in the press of his lips and the massage of his tongue.

 

Blessed release. 

 

As she melted into the sheets of his bed, catching her breath, she thought she might drift off, savoring this bit of contentment, but he was back to tormenting her, his teeth raking against her shoulder and his body heat hovering above her. 

 

Let it never be said that Jughead Jones was not a generous lover. 

 

His kisses covered a path down her body again, and learning from her past transgressions, she didn’t complain. She only sighed and praised him for any touch he decided to give her. When his mouth finally reached her center, she was delirious with desire. A thin film of sweat covered her body and she could barely control her breathing. His tongue thrust inside her and the overwhelming need to run her hands through his beautiful hair consumed her, tugging at the scarves binding her wrists. But when his fingers joined his tongue and his thumb circled her clit, she tumbled frantically over the edge, moaning in her climax. 

 

As her cries died down to a quiet whimper, she felt Jughead’s body lie beside her, the length of him hard against her thigh. He shifted and his weight lifted from her briefly.

 

“Juggie,” she whispered, wanting to bargain and beg for the closeness. “I want to touch you.”

 

His mouth silenced her pleading, his tongue dipping to scramble her words. She tasted herself on his tongue and she moaned, hopeful that he would give her what she asked. 

 

“No,” he said, firmly.

 

She bit her lip to stifle the frustration blooming in her chest. 

 

“But you can see me,” he said, softly, pulling off the blindfold.

 

As the scarf fell away, she met his ocean blue eyes, darkened with lust. He held a condom packet and he clipped it with his teeth, tearing it with his hand then taking the latex out. He spat the wrapper to the side with a grin. She grinned back as he put the condom on.

 

She shifted her hips, eager to have him inside her, but he didn’t oblige her immediately. He kissed her, his tongue sweeping into her mouth before letting his kiss travel to the underside of her jaw.

 

She mewled appreciatively as his lips traveled lower to her breasts, sucking on one peak and then the next. His tongue on her nipple was maddening, her back arching into his mouth as her body blazed for him. 

 

“Juggie, oh my God, just--”

 

He moved up, biting her ear. “Beg.”

 

“Please,” she whispered.

 

“Beg harder.”

 

“Oh, God,” she cried through grit teeth. “Please, Juggie. Please fuck me!”

 

And he did, nailing her against the mattress. She gasped, moaning  _ yes  _ as she wrapped her legs around his hips and met his thrusts. She pulled at her wrists, wanting to hold him, and she found herself sobbing a plea to let her touch him even as the heat between her legs grew to unbearable heights. She came apart in rolling waves, gasping and whimpering as her orgasm hit. 

 

He didn’t stop, but he yanked her wrists free of its bindings. She thought she was free. She was elated at the thought that she could do what she hoped for with her hands and fingers. She wanted to run her hands through his hair, first, then she could touch the rest of him, but he threaded his fingers through hers, keeping her arms over her head, immobile. She sighed, but this was enough. His hands holding hers was enough. She flexed her fingers around his, her nails digging into the back of his hands as he kissed her and continued the cadence, rocking hard into her, pushing her farther up the bed. 

 

It felt way too primal and too good. “Juggie, I’m gonna come again.”

 

Another orgasm hit her just as he gave a guttural moan, gasping the words “I’m coming.” And he was, thrusting deep, hard, and then he was gone with her name on his lips.

 

********

 

He trailed his fingers along the red welts on her wrists.

 

“Betts,” he whispered. “Do these hurt?” His tone was rueful, a tremble touching his voice.

 

She smiled, shyly, and shook her head. “My fault. I kept tugging. I wanted to hold you.”

 

He kissed the sore skin tenderly. “You could have used the safe word.”

 

“I didn’t want you to stop. And it was wonderful, Juggie. That was amazing.” 

 

He didn’t quite get away unscathed, either. She smoothed her hands over crescent shaped impressions on the back of his hands. 

 

“This was my fault, too,” she whispered, biting her lip guiltily. 

 

He cocked a smile. “No, it wasn’t… it felt intimate.”

 

“Is this what you like best?”

 

“I like you in all the ways, Betts,” he said, quietly. “But yeah, this is one of my favorite ways.”

 

She sighed and smiled, a delicious shudder running through her body even as she lay spent in his arms. “Your ways are exquisite.”

 

He kissed her forehead softly. “Next time you can tie  _ me  _ up.”

 

This darkness of his allured her and she wanted it. God, she wanted it bad, and the thought of binding him excited her. But that was for next time. Now she just wanted to bask in this sated state. 

 

“In your room. In your bed,” he added, softly but suddenly, and for a moment, her sense of contentment was slightly disturbed.

 

That was an odd addendum, and she wondered what he meant by it. Her room. Her bed.

 

_ That bed. _

 

And there it was. That question he dared not ask before.

 

He wasn’t asking right now, but the question hung between them nevertheless.

 

She looked into his eyes, finding them expectant, fearful, and hopeful all at once. 

 

She touched his face, tracing his beautiful cheekbones and the soft curve of his lips. “Juggie.”

 

“We’ve--” he started, hesitantly. “We’ve never--in your room. It’s just--” He bit his lip, his gaze never leaving hers. “Is it because of Trev?”

 

She blinked and felt a faint sting in her eyes, but she steeled herself. She didn’t want Jughead to get hurt. He didn’t deserve it. 

 

She bit her lip. She didn’t know what to say. 

 

He looked pained, but he didn’t move away. “It’s--it’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it now. I’m sorry, just that--I need to know, because--” he swallowed. “I’m falling real hard for you, Betts, and it’s too difficult to think that I may never be able to give you what he gave you--”

 

Her tears fell this time, but she kissed him, because she loved him, and she needed him to know that. Whatever shortcomings he thought he had, they were imagined, because he has given her just as much, if not more of what Trev had offered her. 

 

“Stop,” she said between kisses. “It’s not like that at all, Juggie.” She pressed kisses to his lips and his face. “You are  _ so  _ much more right now. So much. I love you. I love you. I love you…”

 

He caught her face in his hands and he kissed her so deeply, whispering about how beautiful she was, and how much he loved her and how he’d never felt this way for anyone else before. 

 

He made slow, tender love to her pressing kisses to her face. He whispered sweet promises in her ear. He told her, with honesty and with all his heart, that he would do anything and everything to make her happy.

 

And each time he spoke his truth, she spoke it back. It became clear to her what she needed to say to him and what she needed to do.

 

Hopefully, it would be enough for him. And for her.

  
  


************

 

Jughead realized that his face was hurting because he was smiling so much. He’d been smiling since he woke up with Betty still asleep in his arms and he hasn’t stopped since.

 

He woke her up, gently, so that they could make love, and he was assured, subsequently, that he hadn’t dreamed her telling him her feelings last night.

 

She loved him. She wanted him, and all he could do was say it back over and over, because this was the best fucking feeling in the world. To be in love with a person who loved you right back.

 

They still hadn’t quite talked about Trev, but he was willing to wait on that a little bit more, because the fear was gone--that fear that she couldn’t love him back because of Trev. 

 

“C’mere,” he said quietly, after watching her stick a batch of quiches in an oven. 

 

She smiled, gliding into his arms, her lips meeting his. She would sigh happily into their kiss, and he would pull her closer in his arms. 

 

“I’m so glad it’s a Sunday,” he whispered as he settled his chin atop her head. “I’ll have this one day we don’t have to do anything on the farm. We can just be lazy together.”

 

She looked up at him, her hand coming up to cup his face. “I  _ really  _ ought to stop taking advantage of your goodness and maybe  _ hire  _ another person. Apparently, I need a third farmhand around here.”

 

He chuckled, taking her hand and kissing it. “Stop. I can do the work.”

 

“You’re a writer, Jughead. You need to write. This farm is not your responsibility.” She placed a kiss in his cheek. “As much as I love how you’ve integrated yourself in it.”

 

“The work helps my writing, actually. Not just for research. I’m way past that at this point. The physical efforts--it’s like it turns and oils the gears in my head. I write better and faster after a morning of farm work.”

 

She chuckled. “Hmm, sounds like you could actually live in a farm, Jones.”

 

Her tone was joking, but her words struck him. He stared at her, wondering if there was an ounce of an invitation in that and finding that he wanted there to be. 

 

“Yeah?” he asked, softly. “I’ve loved living in a farm so far.”

 

The teasing glint in her eyes quieted, replaced by mild amusement. “And its loved you, Jughead. It’s not as exciting as the City, but it has its advantages.”

 

He watched her move about the kitchen for a minute before getting up to help her. He has learned more about cooking helping her in the kitchen these last few weeks than he ever has doing it for himself for years. 

 

He helps cut up fruit and all the pieces go into a bowl, which she dresses with lemon, mint, basil, and salt.

 

There’s three different kinds of breakfast sausages for something more hearty to go with the more delicate offerings, paired with fried eggs and fresh-made bread.

 

Betty and Jughead were just about finished plating when Archie sauntered in with Veronica in tow. They walked into the kitchen just as Jughead was wiping the side of a plate with a clean kitchen towel, removing some misplaced grease that marred the effect of otherwise perfect plating. 

 

Archie and Veronica stood, transfixed, marveling at the idea that Jughead was serving restaurant quality food.

 

“What?” Jughead asked, flinging the kitchen towel over his shoulder.

 

“You made this plate?” Archie asked.  _ “You?” _

 

Jughead rolled his eyes. “Well, I copied Betty while she was doing it. Hers still looks better, but yeah.”

 

Veronica shook her head and took her seat. “I’ve been trying to turn Juggie into a gentleman for years, Betty. A few weeks with you and he’s wearing a suit, serving fine cuisine, and helping make soaps and cheeses.”

 

“Motivation is key,” Archie said, taking his seat beside Veronica. 

 

“Most of that is just stuff I picked up helping out, because it’s the decent thing to do,” Jughead said, holding out a gentlemanly hand to assist Betty as she slid into the bench seat. “The suit was so that Betty wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen with me.”

 

Betty shot him a mildly scolding look. “I’m never ashamed to be seen with you, Juggie. Whatever you’re wearing.”

 

He smiled, pressing a kiss to her lips as he sat beside her. “I know, baby.”

 

“Where’s the She Devil?” Archie asked.

 

“She wakes up much later than any of us,” Betty replied. 

 

“Like at midnight?” Archie cracked.

 

“Archie,” Veronica said with a gently scolding look. 

 

Jughead had to laugh at that. “You actually become clever when you’re jealous.”

 

“You’re not exactly Prince Poise when Reggie gets flirty with Betty, sweetie,” Veronica pointed out. 

 

Jughead actually blushed. 

 

Betty grinned but was kind enough to redirect the conversation. “Even before Jughead started waking up at the crack of dawn, he never slept later than 9:30.”

 

“I think his motivation to spend time with the B&B’s gorgeous hostess came before his motivation to help out and be a decent human being,” Archie pointed out.

 

Jughead chuckled. “Well, you’re not wrong.”

 

That earned him a gentle rub on his arm.

 

Cheryl made an appearance way after breakfast, but she did join them on the porch with a bowl of the cut fruit, sitting herself beside Veronica on the couch. Veronica swung an arm around her and Cheryl leaned on her shoulder.

 

Betty giggled, flicking some hair off Jughead’s forehead. They were on the porch swing and his head was on her lap, and he laughed at the look that crossed Archie’s face.

 

“Should I give you two a moment?” Archie asked.

 

“Yes, thanks,” Cheryl said.

 

“I have your baby inside me, Archiekins. Stop being so jealous,” Veronica said, accepting the strawberry that Cheryl popped into her mouth.

 

Archie rolled his eyes. “I swear, if Ronnie leaves me, I know where she’s going.”

 

As the three of them bantered, Betty pushed the swing gently, and Jughead smiled contentedly up at her, rubbing her arm as she laid it across his chest. She smiled back down at him, touching his face lightly.

 

He didn’t think it could get any better than this. 

 

There were still a couple of months yet before he really had to move back to the city, but the thought of it already gave him an ache in his heart. 

 

He didn’t want to be separated from her. That realization was overwhelming.

 

“Yo, Jug!”

 

Jughead turned at the sound of his name. “What?”

 

“I was asking you if you wanted to come to Coachella next year.”

 

Coachella. It was one of the few events that Archie had VIP access to that Jughead actually enjoyed going to. It was glamorous, yes, and probably had way too many celebrities than Jughead was comfortable with, but the acts were fantastic and it was just crazy enough that Jughead could get lost in the crowd, never having to schmooze with people he may not want to talk to. 

 

“That isn’t until April,” Jughead said. “Are they counting your pluses already?”  

 

Naturally, Archie could get tickets before they even went on sale. Jughead always went. Usually without a plus one. 

 

Archie scoffed. “Yeah! These things are planned way ahead of time, you know.”

 

“I mean, sure… but only if you can get Betts a ticket.” He looked up at her, and she looked mildly alarmed. “And only if you want to go, babe.”

 

She seemed terribly uneasy.

 

He rubbed her arm reassuringly and said, “Arch, do we have to decide now?”

 

“You have at least a couple of weeks yet before you have to let us know,” Veronica replied. “And seriously, we always get cancellations, so you’ll probably get a ticket anyway. Besides, I’ll be heavily pregnant by then and I may decide not to go. You can have my ticket.”

 

“Cool. I’ll let you know,” said Jughead. 

 

Betty seemed to relax and he tugged lightly at her finger. 

 

“You okay?” he asked, quietly. 

 

She nodded. “I’m good.”

 

They stayed on the porch a while longer until Cheryl said she wanted to have lunch out at the nearby (40 minutes away) Italian restaurant. 

 

“My treat, of course,” she said. “Give Betty a break from feeding us all and have a little send off before we all leave these two to their mischief.”

 

Jughead grinned. “God, I’m counting the days until you’re all out of here and I can have Betty all to myself again.”

 

“Juggie,” she chuckled, pinching him lightly. 

 

“I thought you said you missed us, Juggie?” Veronica cried. 

 

“I did. And I will miss you again, but I’ll live”

 

Veronica stuck her tongue out at him.

 

“I thought we made pretty good housemates, Jonesy,” Cheryl said. “You and I both know that I was good for you.”

 

“Ah, Red. I’d have been lost without you.”

 

Betty thought that funny, because she giggled and gave Jughead a peck on the lips.

 

He smirked. “Still. I don’t mind sending ya’ll off.”

 

“Even me, brother?” Archie asked.

 

“Yeah, even you.”

 

With Jughead’s feelings made clear on the matter, they all got up to get ready for lunch. 

  
  


**********

  
  


She ended up in his bed again that evening, but this time, they were sitting up on it, like two teenagers talking in his bedroom, him in his shirt and sweats and her in her cute pajama shorts with tiny unicorns.

 

Their legs were intertwined as they sat face to face, bodies connected where possible, while fully clothed.

 

Heat always simmered between them. It was a low, constant temperature, which can turn high at any moment, but right now they were singular in the determination to keep it under the surface. 

 

Betty was here to talk and Jughead was happy to oblige her. 

 

She was leaning against the headboard, and she giggled when he took her foot and leg, massaging it with his strong hands.

 

“Below the knees, Jones,” she warned, gently.

 

He smirked, his fingers just shy of the back of her knees. “I’ll do my best, baby. But these legs, though.”

 

She rubbed  _ his  _ leg, well below his knees. “I have things to say. I want you to focus.”

 

“I am so focused right now.”

 

Smiling, she wondered momentarily if it wasn’t just more fun to flirt with him all night, which of course actually meant they would be flirting for ten minutes, max, before the clothes came off.

 

No, she had important things to ask. But before she could start on what she came here to do, he asked a serious question first. 

 

“Earlier, at the porch, when Archie mentioned Coachella, you were--” he paused, watching her face. When she didn’t finish the sentence for him, he went on “--uncomfortable.”

 

She pursed her lips lightly, nodding. “Do you go every year, Juggie?”

 

He nodded, slowly. Perhaps gauging if answering her question wasn’t detracting from  _ his _ question. “I do. It’s one of the few perks from Archie that I actually enjoy, but it’s a trip across the country and, honestly, all I can think about right now is that it’s three days away from you if you don’t want to go.”

 

“Juggie.”

 

“Not your speed? I’d rather skip Coachella to be with you.”

 

She rubbed his knee and shook her head. “You should go. It’s Coachella. It’s an amazing event! The music is awesome, I heard.”

 

“It is. It would be fantastic if you were there.”

 

She bit her lip, feeling nervous all of a sudden. Her life, as she knew it, would be laid bare, and this was as good a time as any. He loved her, so she owed him the truth about her. 

 

“Juggie, my mother didn’t stop my ballet because my feet were getting ugly. That was a lie,” she said, softly. “She stopped my ballet because it fed my demons. I have anxiety and depression, and the rigorous demands of ballet--the need to be perfect, the crazy anorexic diets, and the physical toll--was making me worse. My medication wasn’t helping me anymore. The only way to save me from destruction was to stop the ballet.”

 

And just like that, he was listening. He didn’t look afraid. He didn’t look disgusted. He was just Jughead, listening and concerned. Her heart felt cautiously optimistic.

 

“I mean, mom was just as bad sometimes,” she went on. “But I suppose even Alice Cooper knew when too much was too much. Without the grueling, physical pain of ballet, I went back to doing  _ this _ .” She held out her palms to him, and though barely visible now having gone almost a decade without gouging her skin, there were unmistakable, crescent shaped scars, similar to the bruises she left on the back of his hands. 

 

He cradled her hands, smoothing his fingers over the scars lightly. 

 

“I’d draw blood and I’d always feel a little better,” she said. “Ballet was my outlet for a while because  _ that  _ was a world of pain, but that price was too high. Alice recognized that and she got me out of it. In some ways she was right, but I think it could’ve been handled better. I really loved dancing, and if she had just let up on other things and just let me dance my heart out, I think it would’ve been fine, but she was Alice Cooper and she had goals for her children. We didn’t have much say. Chic had it easier because all he had to do was be great at school. He didn’t have the pressure of being thin or dressing a certain way or preserving his reputation. That sort of thing was for just me and Polly. So… Polly did drugs and I self-harmed and everything was fine.”

 

He reached out and ran a tender hand through her hair. “Until it wasn’t.”

 

“I panic in big open crowds, Juggie,” she finally said. “I can’t handle the sensory overload of something like Coachella. It was why when I left the city and discovered  _ this place-- _ ” she sighed and closed her eyes, smiling to herself “--it felt like paradise. My anxiety just fell away and I asked myself why I never thought about doing this before.” She opened her eyes and looked at him. “I never felt the need to hurt myself again. I never felt like I  _ had  _ to be something, I just am. Juggie, when I married Trev, it wasn’t just him I was marrying, it was  _ this _ , too _.  _ It was this life. My life.”

 

He nodded, understanding. “And when he died, were you--how were you?”

 

She smiled sadly. “I was bad. I was scary bad. It’s why Kevin didn’t leave me alone. It’s why Polly and Chic came over to help watch me. But I did manage to get through it in one piece. It turns out that without my mother’s influence, I was pretty good at handling my problems. I haven’t had to take my medications in years, but yeah, when I’m alone in this house, I still have to watch out for that little gremlin. Feeding it after midnight and getting it wet and all that.” She laughed a bit at the metaphor. So did he.

 

“I don’t drink when I’m alone,” she said. “Not even wine.”

 

He sighed. “Betts… Trev saved you, then.”

 

She nodded. “He did, and he was a wonderful man, Juggie. He was decent and kind and yeah, he was really easy on the eyes. I loved him, and he loved me, but the moment he died, I started learning to live without him. It's just been me ever since and I’m my own person. I will always have my memories of him, but I think--” she took his hands in hers “--I moved on from him years ago. Even if I wanted to keep loving him deeply, time just healed the wounds and when you came along--God, Juggie, I  _ really  _ started to realize that the ache I had for Trev was long gone. You were  _ so…” _

 

He grinned and she chuckled.

 

She looked at him, mildly chastising, but she didn’t hold back. “Sexy and smart and funny. God, you were like a tall drink of ice cold water after a walk across the desert. I was thirsty as hell.”

 

He looked pleased and he should be. He wasn’t even trying then. It was why his deliberate seductions turned her into an incoherent mess.

 

“So yeah,” she said, quietly. “Maybe keeping it out of my bedroom was a kind of like that last stand. The final wall that needed to be breached before I finally accept the fact that I had moved on from Trev and had fallen in love with another man.”

 

He tilted his gaze, catching her eye. She hadn’t even realized she’d looked away. “The thought of being separated from you gives me physical pain,” he said, softly. “It’s a few months yet before I actually have to go back to the City, but I don’t know if I want to just see you on the weekends. I’d want  _ more.” _

 

She probably shouldn’t think “physical pain” romantic at all, but knowing herself and the darkness she shared with Jughead, it was, and if she were being completely honest with herself, she had always been an emotional being. She tried her best to be practical and smart, and in most things, she succeeded, but when her heart was involved, she was entirely capable of just going with her gut. It’s what made her fearless in marrying Trev in spite of only two years knowing him. It’s what made her set up the B&B and what made her venture into soaps and cheese. It’s what is powering the words she was about to say.

 

“Move in with me,” she said. “Like for real, not just a guest. Whatever you have in storage right now, have it shipped over. Live here and write and be with me. Go to the city when you have to--hell, stay at Cheryl’s place if you have to be there a few days. She loves you enough to let you, and then come home to me. You don’t have to help in the farm--only if you want to. You can write and write and my room will be our room and--”

 

He cut her off with his lips, and then his tongue was tangling with hers. He pulled her on top of him and she was straddling him, but she wanted to hear what his thoughts were.

 

“Well?” She gasped as his mouth sucked on the skin beneath her jaw. “What do you think?”

 

“God, waking up to you every damn day?” he gasped. “I want that, baby. You don’t even know how much.”

 

“But?” She felt it coming. It was too perfect. It could never be so easy.

 

He looked up at her, mildly surprised. “There isn’t a but. It’s what I want. Veronica and Archie always told me I should just do whatever the fuck I want if my heart tells me it’s right, and pops would probably be thrilled. I want to be with you. I want to live here.”

 

She laughed at her own cynicism, kissing him deeply when she realized that she had nothing to fear from this man that she loved. “Oh, Juggie! I am so happy right now. I can’t even tell you!”

 

“Show me?” He whispered in her ear, his hands gliding beneath her shirt and cupping her breasts. 

 

She nodded, rolling her hips against him. She felt his erection already pressing through his sweats and she smiled. She’ll show him, alright.

 

***********

  
  


Jughead looked up from the trench, the cigarette hanging from between his lips. 

 

Veronica stood atop the mound of earth he and Archie had piled up and she was watching them in pure disbelief. 

 

“What’s the matter?” Jughead said through his cigarette. “You’ve never seen blue collar workers in their natural habitat?”

 

He had figured that morning that Archie wouldn’t mind the physical exertion of farm work. Kevin had asked Jughead to dig more trenches for a new fence, and Jughead easily agreed. He liked this particular task. It was simple and it had real results. He had asked Archie if he wanted to help out, since he was awake already, and together, they dug the trench, just like old times at Fred’s, Archie’s father, construction sites, before Archie discovered music, before Jughead finished his first novel.

 

Veronica glared at Archie. "I'm not moving to a farm. So don't get any ideas in your head." 

 

Archie grinned, beating his bare chest. “Don’t you like me this way? Half-naked, sweaty, and dirty?” He winked and Jughead rolled his eyes.  

 

Veronica arched an eyebrow. “I suppose I recognize the appeal. I couldn’t believe it when Betty told me you were out here. I had to see it for myself. And Juggie, am I remembering correctly when you said you worked on some other fence?”

 

Jughead jerked his head in the direction of the fence she was asking about. “Worked on that one with Kevin. I’m practically a pro.”

 

“And you were flashing your gang tattoos with those low-rider jeans? No wonder Betty dropped her panties for you.”

 

“Hey, I’ll have you know that she dropped her panties for my brains.”

 

“You are the only man I know who would consider what I said to be an insult. Don’t be such a fucking snowflake!”   

 

He shot her a sardonic scowl. “Looks fade, you know.”

 

“Not if I can help it,” Veronica said, jaw set. She held up a canvass tote before Jughead could protest and said, “Betty thought you guys might appreciate a break. She packed this for me to bring to you.”

 

She set the bag down and pulled out a couple of sealed mason jars with straws poked through the cap.  “Betty said you might find this funny, Jug.  She didn’t explain.”

 

Jughead grinned, remembering the last time they talked about using mason jars on the farm. There were blueberries floating in a pink liquid, mint leaves, and a lot of ice. He took a hefty sip and it was delicious, but the kick was immediate. He gave a whoop. “Woo! Bae can make a drink!”

 

“ _ Damn _ ,” Archie gasped. “That’s delicious, and there’s  _ definitely  _ rum in there. What is it?”

 

“She calls it a Blueberry Mojito,” Veronica grumbled. “She stuck me with this Blueberry Moscow Mule Mocktail. Something about being pregnant and non-alcoholic. I swear, I’ve been so jealous of everyone being able to drink these magical cocktails that Betty gets up. She is such a domestic Goddess, Jug. You need to marry this chick. And she needs to have your babies.”

 

It has occurred to Jughead that he had thought about it and didn’t mind that idea in the least. “Well, I might as well tell you guys--”

 

Veronica gasped.  “ _ Do not _ tell me she’s pregnant!”

 

“She isn’t,” Jughead said quickly, before Archie could react. “But I’m moving in with Betty. Here. At the farm. I know it seems sudden, but I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”

 

Veronica and Archie looked at one another, eyebrows raised. Jughead waited for the inevitable examination of how wise this decision was and he was prepared to tell them that they weren’t exactly shining examples of prudence.  

 

“You owe me a hundred dollars, babe,” Archie said. 

 

“What say you just knock it off the bag you were supposed to get me for that other bet?”

 

Jughead scowled. “Wait a minute, you were betting on this? What the fuck?”

 

Veronica rolled her eyes. “Please. Archie and I have been talking about your love life for the better part of ten years. Betting on you is our favorite form of entertainment.”

 

“So, what? Were you betting against me, V?”

 

“Settle down! Of course I wasn’t betting against you. Archie and I bet on  _ when  _ you would decide to move in with her.  It was never a question of whether you would, but  _ when.  _ You’re practically thirty, Jug. The hang-ups of our twenties are long behind you, even if I honestly thought you’d take longer to decide to move in here. I guess Archie was right that it wouldn’t take you long at all. I should’ve gone with my instinct—you are so fucking whipped it’s almost unfunny. Almost.”

 

“Really? Exactly how predictable have I gotten over the years?”

 

“Sort of predictable,” Archie said. “But only because we know you so well. You do throw a curveball at us every now and then, so that’s still more than most people can manage in a lifetime.”

 

Veronica nodded. “Yes, this entire thing you have with Betty was unexpected, but I suppose if anyone can find a gorgeous babe tending a beautiful farm and B&B in the middle of nowhere in upstate New York, it would be you, so really, I shouldn’t have been surprised.”

 

“And the dancing. That was pretty surprising,” Archie pointed out. 

 

Jughead stuck his cigarette back in his mouth and smirked. Wait until he tells them what he and Betty did in the back of their SUV.  

 

“I still can’t believe it, though,” Archie said, leaning against the handle of his shovel. “You actually made an adult decision, Jug.”

 

“Writers have a special dispensation for some measure of arrested development.” And there he was, taking advantage of the whole Writer Doing Weird Shit trope. “Also, Veronica making adult decisions for you doesn’t count as yours. When have  _ you  _ made an adult decision?”

 

Archie paused to think. “Fuck, you’re right.”

 

Veronica frowned. “How about when you asked me to marry you?”

 

“With a ring pop?” Jughead pointed out. 

 

“Okay, you’re right. But you know what? That’s neither here nor there.  _ Juggie,  _ I am so happy for you! This is all sorts of wonderful, and if you have to go to the city for work, you can stay at our place!”

 

“Or Cheryl’s.”

 

“Or Cheryl’s,” Archie repeated in disbelief. “Jeez, that’s another curveball of yours. How’d you get along with a bombshell like that? Girls like that usually make you run in the other direction. Like, fast.”

 

Jughead shrugged. “I dunno. It just happened. She gets on my nerves a lot, but she really  _ was  _ my wingman in all this. Cheryl was rooting for me and I appreciate that.”

 

“She’s great,” Veronica said with a sigh. “Honestly, I have such a crush on her.”

 

“Yeah, I got that,” Jughead said. 

 

“Hey!” Archie cried. 

 

Veronica chuckled. “Oh, Archie. You are my one true love. I will never ditch you, even for someone as awesome as Cheryl.  Is Betty your one true love, Jug?”

 

He arched an eyebrow and smirked. “I’m gonna marry her one day, just like you advised.” 

 

He wasn’t even joking. It was the truth. He was going to marry Betty Cooper. It was officially on his list of to dos. He felt it to be true, right down to his bones.

 

Veronica squealed and clapped her hands.  “I can’t wait!”

 

“You and Archie gonna bet on that, too?”

 

“Please, we’ve already made it.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe we're almost to the end!!!


	11. Open and Closed Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead shrugged. “You’ve at least been where I am right now. At some point, you loved mom enough to know she was it, even if that relationship didn’t work out.”
> 
> FP sighed, shaking his head. “Your mom was it, Jughead, and I was sure of it. I felt it in my bones, but I destroyed it. What we had could’ve been the love of a lifetime but I screwed that one up, bad. I broke our family and I broke everyone’s heart. That explosion was all me, but I knew what I felt for your mother. She made me happy. I have no regrets about that. If you want to move in with Betty, I know you’ll handle it way better than I ever could, were I in the same situation. Life’s too short and you’re an adult. You know what you’re doing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took some time, but this weekend was terribly busy and I've, admittedly, been daydreaming about a brand new bughead fic. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you really like this.

_Excerpt from_ **_Harvest to Home_ ** **,** **_Open and Closed Doors_ **

 

_“I love doors._

 

_Doors are wonderful accent pieces to a perfect room and they come in so many shapes, colors, and sizes. It creates space and it ties it up. It serves various functions that is both pleasing and practical._

 

_I am so enamored of doors that I have picture books about them up on my shelves. Sliding doors, barn doors, shoji doors, french doors, double doors, red doors, blue doors, stained wood doors--the possibilities and styles are endless. You can leave them closed to keep you safe and give you privacy or you can leave them open to widen spaces and bring in light, air and most of all, people._

 

_Perhaps my favorite function for doors is marking boundaries between rooms, but keeping them open. Wide open.”_

 

_\--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast _

  


On the last hot day of the year, Jughead put on his dark glasses, sat back on his beach chair, and fully enjoyed the sight of Betty stripping off her shirt, then her shorts, so she can be in her swimsuit.

 

The sun hit her skin just right and some of the sand that was already stuck on her leg added to the blessed sexiness that was Betty in a white bikini, on a beach, and looking at the ocean along the Jersey Shore.

 

She dropped her clothes on the towel, slipping on dark glasses as she surveyed the relatively quiet beach.

 

“Are you just going to sit there and gawk, Jones?” she asked.

 

That was not a bad idea. In fact, he thought that idea splendid. “Yup. If I can just gawk at you all day, I’ll be totally happy.”

 

She tilted her head. “Juggie, I thought we were going to swim and build sandcastles!”

 

“I would love to watch you swim. Watch you get wet and come out of the water, like, in slow motion.”

 

She planted her hands on her waist. “Forsythe Pendleton Jones III!”

 

“What?”

 

She settled on her knees beside him and he lowered his glasses to get a better view of her cleavage.

 

“Jesus, those babies look beautiful,” he said, meaning it.

 

She slapped his arm lightly. “Honestly, it’s not like you don’t see them everyday!”

 

“Not in this swimsuit, I don’t.”

 

“Juggie,” she said patiently. “I know you’re not a big fan of pools of water, but if you don’t promise to come with me into the ocean, I will ask one of these strangers to put sunblock on me.”

 

“Emotional hostage isn’t healthy for relationships.”

 

“I will do what it takes to make you enjoy our beach date. Sitting here watching me enjoy it by myself is not what I want.”

 

He sighed, taking the bottle of sunblock. “Fine. I’ll go in the water with you. Come here, before one of these knuckleheads trip over themselves to get to you.”

 

Grinning, she turned her back to him so that he could slather sunblock on her back.

 

He applied the sunblock on her shoulders, neck, and lower back. He put some pressure with his fingers and she sighed happily at the gentle massage. He could do this all day, pressing circles on her skin and listening to her making those soft moaning sounds.

 

He worked on her lower back and thereafter gave in to the urge to slip his hand under her suit to rub her ass. She gasped softly, turned, and swatted his hand away. “Juggie, there are _children!”_

 

Her cheeks were a deep red.

 

He bit his lip as he grinned. “I’m sorry, but _how_ could I resist that?”

 

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Honestly, Juggie. You are such an ass man.”

 

“Only if it’s yours, babe.” He smirked and he could tell by the look in her eyes that she was going to get him later for it, which he was looking forward to already.

 

She told him it was his turn. She put sunblock on his back, and when they were properly protected, she pulled him to his feet so they can dry for a few minutes.

 

He draped an arm over her shoulders and she wrapped an arm around his waist.

 

He looked at the expanse of the beach and loved how the white waves splashed against the sand bank. He loved how the dark churn of water turned blue farther out.

 

He loved the smell of salt in the air, mixing with Betty’s scent of coconuts and lilacs. He loved the clear sky overhead, dotted with clouds.

 

The beach had always held good memories for him. No amount of _Jaws_ and _Titanic_ could take that away from him.

 

“My dirty secret is that I do love the ocean,” Jughead said, quietly. “Pools and lakes freak me out because it’s stagnant. It’s a soup of things and the water doesn’t get changed enough. Oceans and rivers are alive with life and secrets. It’s an adventure unto itself.”

 

“I love it when you talk this way,” she said, pressing a kiss on his shoulder. “When you speak words that you can put in a book.”

 

He kissed the top of her head. “I love you.”

 

“I know.”

 

He grinned after the pause drew out. “Alright, Han Solo. I would appreciate—“

 

She giggled. “I love you, Jughead Jones.”

 

“That’s better.” It always gave him a warm feeling, hearing her say it.

 

After their talk about Trev, she had invited him to stay in her room the next evening. He had been staying there, since, and he did note that Trev’s photograph had disappeared from her dresser.

 

He was surprised at the pang of guilt it gave him. The thought that she had taken down Trev’s photo for him made him feel slightly uneasy.

 

Carefully, he asked her what she had done with it. At first she had seemed flustered, telling him that she had put it away with the rest of his photographs in the attic.

 

But when he told her that he didn’t want Trev to be erased from the house, she gave him a look that he now lived for.

 

The following day, she had shown him a photograph of Trev, with his checkered blouse, jeans, and cowboy hat sitting on a fence, horses blurred in the background. The photograph was framed, and she placed it on the living room mantle, along with all the pictures of the people she loved.

 

It made him surprisingly happy to see him up there, his memory up in its rightful place.

 

Cheryl saw the photograph on the day she was leaving, and she said to him, “Classy, Jones. I approve.” She slapped his shoulder gamely and he gave her a grateful smirk.

 

Betty sighed and pulled him back to the beach, leaning against his shoulder and closing her eyes. “When Cheryl left, I had a brief panic attack at watching her go. I felt awful enough that Cheryl left because she wants to run back in the arms of _that witch—“_

 

He found her protectiveness lovable and amusing.

 

“—but she’s one of my best friends, Juggie, and I do love her, and for a hot second, that translated to _all of you_ leaving me. I had to tell myself you were staying, and that pulled me out of the floodwaters real quick. Am I being totally creepy now?”

 

He pulled her closer, sad that the emotions were so real for her. “No, babe. What you’re talking about is PTSD. It’s a milder form, yeah, but you’re reliving something that hurts you. Also, abandonment is a terrible thing.”

 

He knew that feeling all too well.

 

“Juggie,” she whispered, her fingertips brushing his jaw to coax his lips to drop unto hers.

 

He will never get tired of these kisses, always loving, almost always sensual. He could live like this forever.

 

“I think the sunblock’s dry,” she said, taking him by the hand and pulling him forward.

 

He let her and they ran splashing into the ocean. Into a sea of possibilities.

 

************

 

FP was coming to the farm to visit and Jughead was surprised at how little apprehension that brought him.

 

This would not have been the case two years ago, where Jughead was more inclined to believe that FP could be triggered to drink if someone so much as breathed wrong.

 

What Jughead felt about his father’s arrival was a testament to FP’s hard work of staying sober, making amends, and trying his hardest to keep his life on track.

 

Betty and the farmhands were excited, the way they always were when someone new was coming to the farm, and Betty had already grilled him on FP’s favorite foods, which Jughead thought would be a cakewalk for Betty, considering FP liked steak and potatoes best.

 

So he was shocked when a look of horror passed her face.

 

“Oh, God,” she gasped. “What time is it? Shit! If I rush out of here, I can make it!”

 

“Make it where?” he asked, but she had already rushed to grab her coat and keys. “Babe, where are you rushing off to?”

 

“The butcher’s!” she cried. “Today’s Thursday and they don’t sell aged porterhouse on Fridays! Shit! I gotta go!”

 

She was gone before Jughead could yell for her to _drive carefully for fuck’s sake._

 

When she came home  triumphantly carrying a humongous slab of porterhouse aged 25 days, his relief of her having made it home without driving herself into a ditch was real.  

 

FP was scheduled to arrive late afternoon on Friday, driving in from a job in the city. He was going to stay overnight at the farm, which Jughead thought was a good opportunity for him to sit his father down and have a nice long talk with him.  

 

Betty sat with Jughead on the porch swing as they waited for FP to arrive. He couldn’t get over how pretty she looked in her sweet denim dress cinched at the waist, cowgirl boots, and her half-braided hair.

 

He slung his arm over the swing’s backrest, his hand playing with a small golden curl that stuck out cutely from the knot on the back of her head.

 

“You look incredibly adorable,” he said, softly. “I can’t stop looking at you.”

 

She cocked a tight lipped smile, her cheeks glowing pink. She leaned over and kissed him, and it was the kind of kiss that was unhurried and tinged with heat.

 

By the time she pulled away, he was deep in its spell.

 

“You gonna finish that kiss later, gorgeous?” he asked in a low tone, an undercurrent of a demand lacing it.

 

“You know I don’t do things in halves.”

 

His lips sought the underside of her jaw, nipping at the sensitive pulse there. Her sigh and the way she angled herself to give him more access only served to make him needier. “You think we have five minutes to—“

 

“Hmm, maybe,” she whispered, her fingers running running through his hair.

 

He was just grabbing her hand to pull her into the house when the distant sound of a rumbling engine reached his ears.

 

He groaned, flopping back down on the swing seat and throwing his head back. “The pain.”

 

She giggled and stood up, straightening her dress and hair to wait for FP to pull up to the front. “Oh, hush. You should be glad to see your father.”

 

His look was half amusement, half chiding. _Of course_ he was glad to see his dad, but she absolutely knew what she could do to him and that was kind of a cruel tease.

 

“When I get my hands on you later, Elizabeth…” he promised, darkly.

 

The brightness of her eyes darkened to a sultry sheen before she tore her eyes from him to watch his father arrive.

 

FP’s beaten up old truck arrived a minute later, parking just off the side of the house. When he killed the engine, Jughead was already on the steps beside her, his red flannel shirt straightened over his white tank. His blue jeans and brown boots were about as casual as he could be for something he secretly thought was an important milestone in his relationship with his father.

 

“You look ruggedly handsome,” Betty said aside.

 

He tried not to smile too widely. He knew she liked his flannels.

 

When FP came up the front steps to meet them, he had with him a small, nicely wrapped box, its wrapping held together with twine.

 

Betty met him first, giving him a welcoming hug, which FP accepted with surprising familial ease.

 

“I got you something from the city,” FP said, handing the box over to her. “It’s from my favorite Greek place—baklavas.”

 

“I love baklavas, FP,” she said, smiling warmly. “Thank you. These are perfect.”

 

Jughead couldn’t help but feel pleased by his dad’s thoughtfulness and just overall well-mannered gesture. There was a time FP might have shown up to something like this drunk and empty-handed. He’d really come a long way and Jughead was proud of him.

 

FP turned to him and he grinned. He was pulled into a bear hug, and Jughead found that his dad was determined to make it a hefty, unhurried embrace.

 

“Kid,” FP said against his shoulder. “It’s nice to see you.”

 

“Nice to see you, too, dad,” he replied, clapping his father’s back.

 

When FP finally let him go, Betty invited him inside and told him to make himself comfortable in the living room while she got dinner ready.

 

“Need help, Betts?” Jughead asked, already following her.

 

“Take time with your dad,” she said. “If you want, I have some sodas in the refrigerator. I’ve got some snacks, too, while you wait. You can grab them from the kitchen table.”

 

Jughead nodded, telling his dad to have a seat and he’ll bring out something to eat. He wasn’t the least bit concerned that snacks might ruin them for dinner. They were Joneses. They had galaxy-sized appetites.

 

As it turned out, Betty’s snacks were fresh nachos, topped with jalapenos and seasoned ground beef. There was a spicy queso dip on the side, but as Betty said, they can pour the entire bowl over the nachos.

 

Jughead turned the TV on for some football. He wasn’t a fan of the sport but he knew FP always liked a good game.

 

FP’s first mouthful of the nachos had him making sounds of satisfaction. Betty’s food never failed, however common or simple the food was. She could have gone with fancy hors d'oeuvres—cheeses and prosciutto with olives, or mini pastry cups with truffle custard, but she was ever aware of guests, going with what they liked, often what would be most comforting to them, and then making the best of _that._ It was a goddamn art and Betty was the master of it.

 

Jughead could wax poetic on how amazing Betty was, but FP was already immersed in the football game playing on screen and Jughead understood the sport enough to actually enjoy it, too, for his dad.

 

FP talked sports to him, pointing out the plan of the offense and the flaws in the defense. He’s been captain of the football team after all, back in the day. Sometimes he would remind Jughead about how, when Jughead was a kid, he was half convinced that Jughead was a natural born pitcher.

 

Jughead laughed at the fleeting memory of him, as a kid, throwing a baseball into his father’s glove, pitching a ball exactly the same way he saw the pros do it on television, and later in live games his father had brought him to.

 

FP was right. He could’ve been a pitcher. His arms, to this day, were strong after all, but the fighting at home and the alcoholic episodes killed those dreams and ambitions.

 

“Can you still pitch a ball?” FP asked.

 

Jughead shrugged. “I hadn’t in forever. Maybe my body remembers? It's been so long. I can throw a football, though, for sure. Archie had me doing it to practice his catch all the way through college.”

 

FP’s face lit up, chuckling. “Ain’t that something. Maybe you got some of your old man’s athletic ability, eh?”

 

“There’s plenty I got from you, dad.” And he meant it. His brain might be wired differently than his dad’s, probably more his mom’s, but his body was mostly his father’s. He would never be as scruffy as FP, but even if FP looked a bit broader now in later years, the Joneses were always a lean bunch. Joneses were lanky, not tanky, bodies pulled by hard work and grit rather than muscular bulk.

 

No matter how hard he punched those bags at the gym or trained vigorously with professional boxers, he would always cut a leaner figure than his stacked counterparts.

 

“So are you still fighting, kid? In the ring? Or is it octagon? I dunno with these newfangled places anymore.”

 

Jughead laughed at the notion that he would _ever_ fight. “I never fought, dad. I just help the fighters out, while I get my exercise in.”

 

FP shrugged and nodded. “Brains are better than brawn. Probably pays better, too.”

 

The smell of cooking steak filled the air and FP grinned toothily. Dinner was going to be great.

 

A few minutes later, Betty called them into the kitchen with the huge slab of steak resting on a large serving plate. There were potato wedges, collard greens, and some seasoned broccoli and corn. It was basic, hearty, and exactly what FP wanted.

 

The steak was superbly cooked, and the 25 day aging made the meat tender and full of the beefy flavor. The clarified butter that it was cooked in took it to a level that Jughead had never tasted until now. The steak looked humongous at the start of the meal, but as it turned out, with him and FP combined, they carved through it with expediency, along with all the delicious side dishes.

 

“That may knock me into a food coma,” FP said after he declared himself done. “But that was absolutely the best steak I’ve ever had. Betty, you _are_ magical.”

 

Betty blushed and waved away his compliments. “Thanks, FP. I’ll pass your compliments on to the butcher. It’s his dry aging that made it so good. I just put it in the fire.”

 

“I can never cook a steak to taste that good,” Jughead said, setting his cutlery down. He was done, as well. “You _did_ something to it. I’m sure of it.”

 

She smirked and turned to FP. “Jughead has the best opinion of me. I’m not complaining.”

 

FP threw him a tight lipped smile. “Jughead is never so easily pleased. You’re definitely special to him.”

 

“Aw, you’re sweet,” she said, getting to her feet and patting his shoulder. “I’ll put some tea on to go with your baklavas. Want coffee instead, by chance?”

 

“Tea is fine, thanks.” He stood with his plate in hand but Betty coaxed him to sit and let her handle his plate.

 

“I’ll help her, dad. You sit,” Jughead said, getting up to help Betty put leftovers and dirty dishes away. There wasn’t much left of the food, anyway.

 

Once the leftovers were stored, everything went into the dishwasher.

 

“The kid’s useful, Betty. You should keep him around longer,” FP said, thinking he was being clever.

 

Betty arched a questioning eyebrow in Jughead’s direction and Jughead could see the question there. _Does he not know?_

 

Jughead had every intention of explaining everything to his dad tonight. He could have told FP by phone, but Jughead wanted this conversation to be face to face, because it was better that way.

 

Not for anything, but Jughead had had to endure a lifetime of milestones unshared with his father. Now that they were getting to a better place in their relationship, Jughead thought it might be a good start, telling FP about Betty. It was easy and it was important.

 

“That’s the plan, FP,” she replied, lightly, just enough that FP would think she was joking while she didn’t have to lie.

 

Jughead put the last of the dinner plates away then sat back down for dessert.

 

Betty asked FP about his work and about any plans he may have for the rest of the weekend, keeping it light and easy. FP talked enthusiastically about his new job and some other job prospect he already has lined up when the contract he was on now ended.

 

He also hinted on a couple of other things that he seemed excited to talk about but he said he wasn’t entirely sure of it yet, so he was holding off.

 

Jughead felt a twinge of nervousness, wondering if FP was getting sucked into another one of those get-rich-quick schemes that had started him on his downward spiral at the very beginning, but he shook the thought out of his head.

 

Right now, FP was good and he should be hoping for the best for his dad.

 

The baklavas were delicious, with the perfect amount of honey and pistachios between each crunchy sheet of pilaf.

 

Jughead opted for the coffee and he listened to Betty talk about helping his dad set up a vegetable garden out at the back of his house, since FP had mentioned wanting one.

 

“We’ll have to wait for spring, obviously,” she said. “But I can get some seedlings started for you late winter, so by the time we’re ready to set you up in the spring, we just have to get them into the ground outside your house.”

 

FP looked surprised at the long-term plans and the implication that she was actually going to his house to help him. “Well, I—um, sure. I’ll probably call Jughead to come help. I’m a dunce at it and I don’t want you to end up doing most of the work.”

 

“I’ll be there, dad,” Jughead said. “I’ll get all your materials ready and Betty and I will head on over to you. I mean, it’s months away, so it’s a little too early to worry about it.”

 

He knew his father wasn’t exactly worried. FP looked more confused than worried. In fairness, it was probably a little difficult for FP to believe that Betty would keep being his friend if Jughead weren’t around to bridge them, also, FP didn’t even know that he and Betty were together, let alone know that Jughead had practically moved into the farm.

 

“Let me put this away and get FP’s room ready,” Betty said, giving him a pointed look. “Juggie, you might want to take FP out back to relax. I have a couple of fishing poles out there and there’s some bait in the cooler outside. Do you like fishing, FP?”

 

FP looked pleasantly surprised. “One of my favorite things!”

 

She smiled. “Go on, then. I’ll be here when you get back.”

 

Jughead knew Betty didn’t need to fix FP’s room. She’d done that hours ago, but he appreciated her arranging some sort of activity where he and FP could talk.

 

He went to her and gave her a chaste kiss on the lips. He thanked her softly and led the way out back and to the river.

 

FP didn’t say anything until they had their bait and tackle with them and were making their way to the river.

 

“So you and Betty, eh?” FP said, lightly. “I think I saw that coming.”

 

Jughead chuckled. “Did you?”

 

FP’s grin was one of amusement. He slapped Jughead’s shoulder. “Well, I mean, she’s kind of your type.”

 

“My _type?_ No offense, dad, but how do you even know my type? You weren’t exactly around in my formative years.”

 

It wasn’t meant to be hurtful, and FP was way past feeling slighted by mentions of his absence in Jughead’s life. It was a fact, plain and simple, and his years of sobriety and making amends has made him well aware of what he missed.

 

FP didn’t seem offended at all. “Oh, I might not have been around when you started dating, kid, but I saw the posters in your room, saw the movies you liked—I even maybe noticed the ladies you looked at most when you hung around the Whyte Wyrm. I know how you liked them—smart, sweet, blonde, and—well, you know.”

 

Too surprised by his father’s words, mostly because they were correct, he asked, “And what?”

 

FP cleared his throat. “Gorgeous. I was going to say gorgeous.”

 

Jughead shot FP a look. “Oh, right, sure. That’s convincing. What were you gonna say, really?”

 

FP chuckled, turning red in the face. “Curvy. You like ‘em curvy.”

 

“Jeez, dad!”

 

“You insisted! I wasn’t going to say! But it’s true. Your old man knows, and really, you looked gone on her that night you came over to help me. It’s why I kept warning you to behave. You kept looking like you were gonna jump her or something.”

 

Jughead felt his face warming. “It isn’t just physical, you know. She cares about people and the things she does. And yeah, she’s smart as _fuck—“_

 

_“Boy.”_

 

“Sorry. Smart as hell. She wants to speak Spanish and French doesn’t scare her, either. And she did ballet—like, for years, and you see what she does in that kitchen, and the farm, and her business. I mean, I can’t even begin to tell you how far out of my league she is. She is seriously impressive.”

 

FP cocked a smile. “Hey, you’re no slouch, either. Just goes to show that someone like her isn’t so easily impressed, herself.”

 

Jughead didn’t have any insecurities about what Betty felt about him or his capabilities. He’d proven himself in his line of work and Betty never made him feel inadequate. The one area he was unsure about had been his place in her life in the context of Trev, and _that_ had ceased to plague him because of Betty’s sweet assurances, daily, in every which way she shows him her love.

 

“Thanks, dad,” he said anyway, appreciating his father’s efforts to reassure him. “I try.”

 

They got to the river and Jughead coaxed his dad onto the jetty where they set down their bait and tackles. They readied their hooks and cast their lines.

 

Jughead lit a cigarette and offered some to his dad. FP lit up as well.

 

“So, uh, this thing with Betty… she your girlfriend or…?”

 

Jughead smirked, a cigarette between his lips as he spoke. “Or what?”

 

His father shot him a look, like _You know what I mean._

 

“I’m not Archie, pop.”

 

“I know, kid. But even with Trula Twyst you were kinda—“

 

“Detached. Yeah, I got it.” Jughead cast his line again. “Betty’s more than that. I want what I have with her to last for as long as she’ll have me.”

 

FP nodded. “That’s good, son. For what it’s worth, I’m happy to hear it. She’s special.”

 

“She is. I’m moving in with her. Here, on the farm.”

 

FP arched an eyebrow, mildly surprised. “You serious?”

 

“Like a heart attack.”

 

He let out a breath after a moment’s pause. “I guess when you know, you know.”

 

The thing about FP is that he never pushed his opinions on his son. He was perhaps right to think that his opinion has carried little weight with Jughead for a long time now, mostly because Jughead had to fend for himself, without his father’s guidance, for long periods of time. Sure, when Jughead had to deal with the Serpents, he had to lean on his father for some learnings, but for things unrelated to the gang, which was the rest of his life, Jughead relied on people like Fred, Archie’s dad, or Veronica’s parents, Hermione and Hiram. It was their guidance that got him through school, scholarships, college, and publishing his books. Archie and Veronica were his emotional anchors on matters social in nature, whether it came to friends or girlfriends. He had never looked to his father for any of that in the past.

 

But as they had quickly established, Betty was different. At this point, Betty was everything.

 

“What do you think, dad?” Jughead found himself asking. “About my moving in with Betty?”

 

“You’re asking me?”

 

Jughead shrugged. “You’ve at least been where I am right now. At some point, you loved mom enough to know she was _it_ , even if _that_ relationship didn’t work out.”

 

FP sighed, shaking his head. “Your mom _was_ it, Jughead, and I was sure of it. I felt it in my bones, but I destroyed it. What we had could’ve been the love of a lifetime but I screwed that one up, bad. I broke our family and I broke everyone’s heart. That explosion was all me, but I knew what I felt for your mother. She made me happy. I have no regrets about that. If you want to move in with Betty, I know you’ll handle it way better than I ever could, were I in the same situation. Life’s too short and you’re an adult. You know what you’re doing.”

 

Jughead nodded, wondering what it was he wanted from his father. “You think I’m doing the right thing?”

 

“I think you love this lady and she makes you happy.”

 

“I do love her. Like I’m crazy about her.”

 

“Then you’re doing the right thing. You don’t let go of someone like that.”

 

He felt a warmth spreading from his chest, and loathe as he was to admit it, he was glad of his father’s blessing. It made his relationship with Betty feel even more deeply real, like it had filled a void instead of just something that came along and stuck.

 

Like what his dad said about his mom—he felt it in his bones.

 

Betty is _it_ and to his mind, it could only get better.

 

************

 

 _“You like them curvy,”_ his father had said.

 

He remembered those words as Jughead caressed the gentle slope of Betty’s hips and then her ass. He did like the curves, and the dips, and the perky mounds of her breasts. He was fascinated by her tight waist and arms as much as he was enamored of the graceful shape of her legs and thighs.

 

It was the ballet, he figured. She still practiced those moves in the basement dance studio. She still moved those muscles like a dancer, and yet since she didn’t actually perform, she didn’t follow a diet that prevented the curves from occurring. She was fit, not skinny, and the pleasing contours of her was his not-so-secret pleasure.

 

“Juggie,” she gasped, softly, as he moved inside of her, his hips meeting hers in a steady cadence.

 

Their mouths were melded together, tongues tangling in a slow massage. Their intermingling groans were hushed this night, even with the overwhelming desire that pulsed between them.

 

Betty gave a particularly loud keen, and Jughead reminded her to be quieter, just for tonight. Just while they weren’t alone in the house.

 

“But it feels so good,” she whispered, desperately, her fingers digging into the cheeks of his ass as she canted her hips towards his.

 

He moaned. “Baby, I know…”

 

Her knees lifted, changing the angle of their bodies. He could thrust deeper and she mewled that she was going to come this way.

 

Nothing got him going like her pleasure, so as he began to feel her fluttering around him and hear the tell-tale pitch of her voice in the throes of climax, he found himself thrusting harder, desperately chasing the orgasm that was now exploding from him.

 

He felt the sweet release, loved the warmth of her around him, breathing the scent of her skin and tasting her between the press of their lips.

 

His orgasms have been extraordinary of late, and he could probably pinpoint it to the day that they stopped using condoms because she had gone on the pill.

 

This was a first for him. He had never been in a relationship that he trusted enough _not_ to use protection. He had never been in a relationship where accidental babies didn’t scare him in the least.

 

There was nothing to be afraid of with Betty, and only with her could mindblowing sex get better.

 

“Baby,” he groaned, smiling against the crook of her neck. “Oh, baby…”

 

She chuckled softly while running her fingers lightly through his hair. “Mmm, always.”

 

They basked in the shared post-coital glow, enjoying the lie in, exchanging slow kisses and whispered words of affection and devotion.

 

“Do you think Professor Flutesnoot heard any of that?” Betty whispered, giggling.

 

“We’ll know in the morning,” he replied, gathering her in the embrace of his arms. “If he couldn’t look me in the eyes, then that’s a sure sign.”

 

It was communicated to them that while the walls weren’t particularly thin, there was only so much these walls could silence.

 

FP’s overnight stay a little more than a month ago had revealed that they were too loud and that the silence of the farm did nothing to drown out their enthusiasm.

 

Of course, FP had said nothing of this to Betty, but Jughead got an earful, which was embarrassing enough by itself. When FP told him that he would be using earphones next time, Jughead felt, for the first time, like his father’s sixteen year old son.

 

They’ve had two different guests stay at the B&B since then and they’ve been more conscientious about the decibels of their lovemaking, but Jughead had to admit, that effort to stay quiet added a bit of fuel to the desire. He and Betty were both rebels by heart. Rules, no matter how small, were fun to break.

 

“I can’t believe it’s been almost two months since you moved into this room,” she sighed. “And we haven’t killed each other yet, so the prognosis is good.”

 

He laughed quietly. “Did you have dire predictions? How uncharacteristically pessimistic of you!”

 

“I guess, but one never knows. What if you always left the toilet seat up? What if my obsessive moisturizing drove you up the wall? What if my period panties were way too ugly for you?”

 

“I have absolutely no objection to your period panties.”

 

She smiled and kissed him. “Get you a man who can talk about periods with a straight face.”

 

“Grew up with Veronica. In a house full of servants she could have asked to buy tampons, she never missed the opportunity to make me run to the drug store to buy them for her.”

 

“I love you.”

 

“I know. And if you ever need me to buy tampons, I’m your man.”

 

“This is a strange conversation, though oddly riveting. But other than that, how do you like living here? With me?”

 

He looked her in the eyes, rubbing the apple of her cheek with his thumb. It wasn’t a ridiculous question. When he moved into her room, he did notice a slight shift in dynamic, how he was officially _not_ her guest.

 

Most of everything he did as “guest”, he kept doing as her boyfriend, which was farming, writing, and helping out with her business, but he’d gone into town several times now, by himself, and he had taken it upon himself to buy the more basic supplies of the house—mundane things like paper towels and cleaners, things that any reasonable housemate would get. He still let her shop for the food, but every other time, he footed the bill, and Betty had stopped arguing with him about it. He was working his way up to paying for _all_ the food, since he consumed so much of it.

 

Evenings were _much_ more comfortable, more dressed down, and he loved seeing her in her comfortable leggings and oversized old sweaters. He loved being able to walk around the house in his old pajamas and shirts. He liked watching her prance around the house without a bra under her tank or shorts under her sleep shirt.

 

One of the things that really pulled at his heartstrings was Betty’s walk in closet. The master bedroom had in it an elegant wardrobe room, big enough to be a room on its own, with an ottoman in the middle and mirrors along the four corners of it. There were shelves, drawers, and cabinets, and clever pullouts for shoes, but when she told him that his things could go in it, he realized that half the walk in was completely empty.

 

He realized it was Trev’s half and that she had never filled it with her own things.

 

She had shrugged and said she never needed that many clothes, but his heart ached at the thought that she had stared at those empty shelves at some point in the last six years. It made _him_ lonely. He couldn’t imagine how she felt.

 

So he filled those shelves. With his old things and with Veronica’s help, a lot of new. Veronica, in fact, had had a field day, and when Betty saw those shelves filled, he didn’t miss the glisten of tears that she quickly wiped away.

 

When he could make the two women of his life happy, it was a great day.

 

He especially enjoyed how Betty discussed meal planning with him now. As a guest, she had never really asked him what he wanted her to prepare. He always liked her food and she did have a knack for knowing what her guests might like, but the sense of belonging she made him feel by _asking_ him what he felt like having for dinner made him feel the most like he was home. It was true, after all, that the best way to his heart was through his stomach.

 

The farm was home. She was home. He had never felt so happy in his life.

 

He had had to go to the city twice now, but each time, he longed to be back in the farm.

 

So now, with her asking him how he liked living here, it felt inadequate to tell her that he enjoyed living here. That he liked living with her.

 

He gathered her closer and kissed the nape of her neck in slow suction. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else but here. With you.”

 

She sighed, reaching behind her to run her fingers through his hair. “Juggie, I swear to God.”

 

He grinned. “What?”

 

She turned around and kissed him, no explanation needed.

 

************

 

When Jughead woke up on the day of his birthday, his stomach knotted and he wished he could go back to sleep for the next 24 hours.  

 

He’d been putting off thinking about October 2nd the last few days and now that it was here, the sense of dread that it always brought him was no less potent.  It frustrated him, that after all of these years of rather tolerable birthdays of watching a movie with Archie and then consuming two (or three) burgers at his local favorite joint, his birthday _still_ pisses him off. He thought perhaps all those low-key birthdays he had with Archie would rid him of this weird complex, but the anxiety persisted.

 

Today was different, however.  For as long as he could remember, Archie had always been his birthday constant. This year, Archie was 80 miles away and Betty, the woman he loved the most, was probably planning something for him which would probably make him cranky, horrible, and possibly the biggest asshole this farm had ever seen.

 

As it was, at the moment, she was not there in bed beside him.  

 

She had naturally gotten up earlier than him, probably wanting him to sleep through the farm chores. His phone read 7:45.

 

_Yep. She’d let me sleep in._

 

Already, he had messages on his phone greeting him a happy birthday.  

 

 _HP, dude,_ came from Archie.

 

Veronica texted, _Happy birthday, Jug. Love you._

 

 _Happy big 3-0, hobo,_ said Cheryl, of course.

 

Kevin texted, _Happiest of birthdays to my work husband._

 

 _Happy birthday, Jughead. The goats and llamas send their birthday greets,_ wrote Farmer John.

 

Ethel Muggs, his agent, wrote, _Hope you have a great low key birthday, Jughead. Sending you a ham, but that’s purely corporate bullshit. Also, many of us at the office are from Virginia. So, whatevs._

 

 _Happy birthday to my favorite author,_ wrote his editor, Midge Klump.

 

There were a few more birthday greetings, but the one that actually made him chuckle came from his father.

 

_Well, kid. You know what today is._

 

Most, if not all of these well-wishers knew his aversion for his birthday, one way or another, but they were all good people, so try as they might to pretend his birthday did not exist, for his benefit, they reached out, anyway. At least they weren’t showing up unexpectedly at his door to throw him a party.

 

His stomach clenched in dread. They wouldn’t, _would they?_

 

He swallowed, thinking that Betty was well-versed enough in party planning to do research ahead of time, and she surely would have asked Archie or Veronica for advice, right? Archie would have told her that he would absolutely _hate_ a party. Archie would have. His best bud wouldn’t betray him, would he?  

 

_Archie could never say no to a pretty face, is the problem, and Betty’s eyes…_

 

Jughead was beginning to feel sick.

 

He had to tell Betty. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t leave his sorry ass for being a grouchy birthday boy. This was a quirk, really.

 

_Oh, God. What if they’re already downstairs?_

 

He resisted the urge to throw the blanket over his head, because even he realized that was ridiculous.

 

Groaning unhappily, he got up and got ready for the day.  

 

When he arrived at the empty kitchen and nobody jumped out at him screaming happy birthday, his relief was real and he started to actually laugh at himself for being so absurd. By the time he poured himself a coffee and served himself the plate of breakfast that Betty had left for him at the counter, he was feeling a bit more optimistic about the day.  

 

He threw on a light jacket before stepping out and his coffee mug in hand, he made his way to the soap factory, where Betty and Kevin would be.  

 

He could hear Betty and Kevin’s chatter before he got to the doors.

 

“So I think Chery’s finally broken up with that girl for real,” Betty was saying.

 

“That girl? Sabrina?”

 

“We won’t mention that name in this house.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

“You know that’s not going to actually _do_ anything. It doesn’t even do anything in the Harry Potter universe.”

 

“I don’t care about your facts, Kevin, and this is why: I think she did it again--cheated on Cheryl with another man, and really, I’m half-glad she did that, because _now_ Cheryl’s out for blood and we know how horrible that could get for _She-Who-Must-Not-be-Named._ ”

 

Jughead grinned at their topic of conversation. When Betty got angry at someone for hurting her loved ones, she was pretty savage. As he walked up to the barn doors, Betty saw him and smiled brightly, shaking her gloves off on the table.  

 

“How are my two favorite queens doing this morning?” Jughead asked.  

 

Kevin huffed. “I swear, if you weren’t so cute…”

 

Betty bounded into his arms, careful not to jostle his mug of coffee so much. She pressed a kiss to his lips. “Does that make you the king?” she asked, tugging on his crown beanie.

 

“Don’t encourage him, for fuck’s sake,” Kevin pleaded.

 

“He can be _my_ king,” Betty said, sliding her arms around his neck.

 

He looped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer and kissing her nose. Sometimes he felt like a king, basking in her sweet graces, even knowing full well that he was so thoroughly whipped.

 

“Need help here?” Jughead asked them, setting his coffee mug on the table.

 

Kevin gave him a dismissive wave. “We’re good here, but check with Farmer John in a bit. I think he needs you to cuddle Butterfinger.”

 

Jughead figured that if the farmhands were asking him to do things—like cuddling kids—, then surely that meant they were respecting his wishes for a non birthday, in spite of their text greetings.

 

“I’ll walk you over to Farmer John,” Betty said, taking his hand and tugging him gently in the direction of the goat pens.

 

“See you later, Kev.”

 

Kevin gave him a salute goodbye before going back to the chopping boards.

 

“Had a good sleep?” Betty asked as they walked at a leisurely pace.

 

It was a bright fall day, not quite as cold as it probably should be this time of year. The season was slow to turn, but the autumn colors were nevertheless making itself known on the farm. The leaves on the trees were slowly drifting to the ground in brown, red, and orange hues. The vegetable plots were thick for the coming harvest and the pumpkin patch was blooming pumpkins, squash, and gourds.

 

“Now why would you let me sleep in on such a gorgeous day?” was his only reply.

 

She shrugged. “You looked so peaceful and you’ve been staying up to write the past week. You needed your sleep.”

 

He nodded and draped an arm over shoulders, pulling her closer. “I’m sorry.” He sighed.

 

She arched an eyebrow in surprise. “That wasn’t a complaint, Juggie.”

 

“N-no. Of course not.” He kissed the top of her head. “It’s just—time I should be spending with you.”

 

“You were writing,” she said, shooting him a mildly chastising look. “You’re a writer. It’s what you do. I thought I told you that your writing comes first.”

 

He shook his head. “What? No, silly. _You_ come first. Writing’s my job, Betty. It’s necessary but it doesn’t _come first._ It doesn’t even come second. There are a whole line of people that come before writing. God help me, even Cheryl comes before writing…”

 

She smiled up at him radiantly. “I love you.”

 

He pulled her closer and kissed her, smiling into the kiss when her fingers fluttered around the waist of his jeans. “You know, we’ve never done it in the loft…”

 

She pulled back all of a sudden and laughed. “No, Forsythe. That loft is itchy and scratchy and hay can get in places that I don’t want to think about.”

 

He chuckled. “Fair.”

 

“Juggie,” she said softly. “What’s wrong? Is it—is it your birthday?”

 

A stone dropped in his stomach. There was an atomic speck of hope that she had forgotten. After all, she didn’t send him a text message about it, but then again, if it were _her_ birthday, he wouldn’t text her, either. He’d tell her. And really, he should be appreciating the fact that she didn’t even really greet him. They were just talking about it, like it was some traumatic experience in the past, which it was, if he were being completely honest.

 

He sighed. “Betts—“

 

She put her hands up and laid them gently on his shoulders. “I’m just asking. I talked to Archie and V and they told me all about your—feelings about it. I promise, there isn’t going to be a surprise party. I’m not having people over for an intimate dinner with friends. The farmhands aren’t even going to mention it all day, but they may have texted you. That was kind of the compromise. Farmer John wanted to parade the goats in birthday hats. We had to shut that down.”

 

Jughead could not help but give a frustrated laugh. “God, I am such a fucking jerk. But this day is just—I couldn’t unlearn to hate it, you know? I’ve had many, many birthdays without incident and you’d think I’d get over myself by now, but every year I feel like something awful is going to happen and that _someone’s_ going to throw me a huge ass party…”

 

She smiled at him sympathetically. “Like me?”

 

He cast his eyes to the ground. “I’m sorry. I recognize people do it because they care, but did V tell you what happened when _she_ tried to give me a low key party? It became a keg fest and I think I punched someone. Can’t remember who…”

 

“She told me, yes,” Betty replied, cocking a grin. “If you don’t mind me asking… why do you hate your birthday so much?”

 

He shrugged. “It’s not that complicated. When you’re a kid, it’s the one day in the year where you expect good things to happen to you. You feel so special that when you’re disappointed, it just feels ten times worse than if it happened to you any other day. I had way too many birthdays when my parents didn’t just disappoint me, they pretty much did everything to fuck up a kid’s birthday without really intending to. There was just too many of that, year after year, and I just—I just hated it. Triggers every year. No fail.”

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing his arm comfortingly.

 

“It’s fine. Archie has pretty much conditioned me to have _something_ on my birthday. It’s becoming a kind of security blanket in itself, or a superstitious ritual which helps make me feel nothing untoward can happen because of it. Except for that one kegger…”

 

“Well, I haven’t invited anyone today and it’s just us two, if you don’t mind.”

 

“That’s everything I want,” he said with a relieved sigh. “You, me, maybe a movie and burgers.”

 

She nodded. “Done!”

 

He smiled, feeling a weight leave his shoulders.

 

“Now, come on,” she said, tugging him by the hand again. “Let’s go cuddle some baby goats.”

 

***********

 

Betty brought him to a local gem of a Bijou that had red velvet curtains over the screen, uniformed ushers, intricate theater decor, a double feature, and a classic cartoon.

 

The feature was George Romero’s _Night of the Living Dead_ and George Waggner’s _The Wolf Man._

 

They shared a large bucket of popcorn and they got shushed a couple of times for excessive giggling.

 

After the movies, she brought him to a diner called Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe that had the most amazing burgers Jughead has ever had.

 

He had such a good time, and as he held Betty’s hand on the way home, driving through the quiet farmland that surrounded them, he felt lucky, and he even mostly forgot how his childhood birthdays had brought him pain.

 

When he put the truck in park, he leaned over the console and unabashedly began making out with Betty.

 

She was immediately responsive, her fingers running through his hair and her mouth opening for his eager tongue. They’d both been thinking it since the Bijou, and the only thing that kept them from misbehaving were the flashlight wielding ushers.

 

His lips traveled to her jaw and his hand slipped under her shirt to cup her breast. He could feel the lace on her bra, and as she gasped, his dick twitched to instant readiness.

 

She pulled away and giggled softly. “Down, boy… I haven’t given you my present.”

 

“I could’ve sworn I’m unwrapping it at this very moment,” he whispered hoarsely, pressing his tongue against a pulse point on her skin.

 

“Well,” she breathed. “You’re not wrong, but I worked really hard on your _other_ present while keeping it a huge secret.”

 

“What?” Her words were barely registering.

 

“Winter is coming.”

 

His eyebrow arched. “I am really hoping you didn’t buy me a box set of the Game of Thrones’s first six seasons because—“

 

“Shut up. Just come with me.” She stepped out of the truck and made her way to the house. “Now this was really tricky because I did not know how much you knew about bed bugs and mites.”

 

He frowned, following her. “Not my favorite subject. When is your office going to be bed-bug free again?”

 

She smirked. “I really hope you like this surprise, because everyone pretty much helped—Reggie had to do the whole spiel about bedbugs and putting up quarantine and fumigation…”

 

“Spiel? You mean he was faking that?”

 

“God, Jug, his acting was awful, but just as he suggested, you’d be so distracted by his flirting with me that you didn’t—“

 

“Now, wait a minute. You can’t tell me he was faking _that._ That’s like his natural state with you—“

 

“And it’s _still_ working,” she said, pointedly, leading him the sliding barn doors of her office. The fumigation tarp that had covered it the last few days were gone and as she slid the doors open, Jughead immediately noticed that her desk had been repositioned. In fact, _everything_ had been repositioned—more than that, the entire room had been remodeled. Her desk was now pushed back to the opposite wall, right beside the large bay windows that looked out to the side of the house. Her shelves had been moved and basically everything that was hers got artfully rearranged to one side of the room, but the biggest difference was the space by the large bay windows looking out to the front of the house, basically the same view from the porch.

 

When she had this space to herself, the bay windows served as some kind of sitting area with a small couch and coffee table, presumably where she could sit with guests more comfortably.

 

Now that set was gone and was replaced by another desk and chair set, slightly different from the style of her desk, but nonetheless cohesive with the rest of the room. The shelves lining the walls surrounding the desk were newly installed, and in it were his books and many more of his things from storage.

 

On the desk was his laptop, a lamp, a few other books, and some classy office knick-knacks, but the real appeal was a comfy desk swivel chair, which he could turn to face his desk, or the window, where he could put his feet up on the window seat and work, just like he would on the porch.

 

The desk and chair were amazing pieces, no doubt salvaged from some antique fair and reworked by Betty’s design and Kevin’s craftsmanship. There was a retro-looking space heater, and even a nice lounging couch, which was possibly put there as a counterpart to the porch swing seat, which he often stretched out on when he took writing breaks.

 

The rearrangement of the entire room looked completely redesigned. No doubt carpentry and small construction had been involved. They must have worked fast and efficiently. And in secrecy.

 

He recalled the last few days which were filled with trips to town where he and Betty stayed out for a few hours. Kevin and probably Farmer John were setting things up until Betty went in and put the furnishings and decor in place.

 

 _Winter is coming,_ he thought. Her words made sense now. When winter arrived, he would be unable to work on the porch, but here was the next best thing, and it was gorgeous.

 

“Betts…” he said, breathless.

 

“Reggie did most of the heavy lifting for the big pieces, and Kev naturally did the carpentry. Farmer John brought your stuff from storage and I did the design and put all your things up with some other accents I thought might strike your fancy.” She looked at him a bit sheepishly. “I hope you don’t mind that we’re actually sharing this space, but you said you didn’t mind having me around when you write, and if you really need some privacy, I had these wooden folding doors installed…” She went to one wall and unfolded beautiful french folding doors that met in the middle. “On the other side of it, there’s an overhang where you can pull the curtains closed. This was such a big space after all, and I figured a better use of it was to divide it into two offices.”

 

She beamed at him and he couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. There had been many, many things that she’d done to make him feel at home, and for the most part, he felt like he belonged in this house, but having her do this for him was overwhelming. And not only that, she got everyone to help.

 

He couldn’t even explain to her how this felt to him. To have someone create a testament to how much he was wanted and accepted _someplace,_ especially having grown up without a place to call _his_ home. Where Archie’s home was temporary, and Veronica’s house was only appropriate to live in until he was 18, the closest he ever came to having his own place was renting apartments through the years.

 

This _permanence_ was almost surreal, and it made him inexplicably happy.

 

Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her with loving abandon, whispering how much he loved her and how--God help him--this was the best birthday he had ever, _ever_ had.

 

She smiled into his kiss, wrapping her legs around him as they fell upon the couch. “I take it you liked this present?”

 

“I love it. I love it so much,” he said, kissing the valley between her breasts. “I like the office, too. It’s really cool.”

 

She laughed, tilting his chin up to look at her. “Do you, really? I just wanted you to have a writing space for the winter. I wasn’t sure if it would freak you out.”

 

He shook his head. “You make me feel like I belong, Betts. That’s what you gave me with _this.”_

 

She smiled plaintively. “Juggie, you _do_ belong.”

 

He kissed her on the lips, softly. “I love you so much.”

 

Her fingers played lightly with the loose curls that had fallen over his eye, then she pulled him to her, whispering the words right back as she kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think many of you might enjoy the last two chapters. I know I'm excited to finish revisions on them and post them soon.


	12. Don’t Burn Down the Barn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had grown up in a system that made him feel like trash for a number of years, and he hadn’t quite let go of his insecurities when the Lodges took him in, especially since their lifestyle was so foreign from what he had been born to. So even if he had sat with them at dinner, attended their parties, and lived in their house, he had always felt like the poor relation that was imposing on their good graces, for a long time.  
> ....
> 
> But with Betty, it had been effortless. She loved him the way he knew himself to be. She and he grew into one another like wild flowers, with all the beautiful colors and weeds, natural and unhampered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter. More fluff. More love. More happiness. It's going to be epic.

_Excerpt from_ **_Harvest to Home_ ** **,** **_Don’t Burn Down the Barn_ **

 

_“When you have a space that you don’t quite know what to do with, the problem is likely not you or your imagination, but your budget. So like I always say, don’t burn down the barn, remodel it._

 

_The practical concerns of our lives factor, rightfully so, into our considerations. But budgets shouldn’t have to hamper your creativity. If anything, it should enhance it. The lifeblood of this blog is DIY-ing on a budget, after all. Don’t focus on what you can’t do. Focus on what you can create with what you have._

 

 _Currently, my carpenter and I are making plans to remodel and redesign the barn, and the budget’s quite tight. It_ _needs insulation from the coming cold, wiring for electricity and heat, finishings to make it elegant enough to host, for example, a reception...”_

 

_\--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast _

 

Jughead checked his watch surreptitiously, wondering what he was doing in this trendy New York City restaurant when he could be headed home to Riverdale Farms on this cold, November afternoon.

 

Granted, his agent had asked to meet with him, but she was late and he had felt a sense of urgency since an hour ago, when Betty texted him to buy her some of Katz’s pastrami egg rolls on his way back.

 

Ethel had already messaged him that she was running late, which she had prefaced with **_Blues & Boogie is still holding strong on the NYT Bestseller’s top 10! Its been 5 months, J! Your book’s totally hot!_ **

 

He wasn’t sure if he was in the mood to be schmoozed like that, especially when Betty was texting him food orders.

 

“Sorry! I’m here! I’m here!” Ethel cried, breathlessly, as she slid in the booth across from him. “My last meeting ran over, but I have a good excuse. The meeting was about you, and your books!”

 

He would hope that his agent was having meetings _only_ about him and his book. He was feeling that cranky, but of course, he didn’t say that. Ethel was a great agent. The best agent. He had a lot to be thankful to her for.

 

“No problem, Ethel. What’s up?  What thing did you have to tell me that you couldn’t tell me over Skype?”

 

She arched an eyebrow. She also looked like she was fighting a grin, because she knew that tone. She knew that meant he had probably groaned and complained about this meeting all week (which he did) and had scheduled all other possible meetings he could on the same day so that he wouldn’t have to be in the city more than once a week (which had definitely been the case--this was his fourth meeting today), and while most of the public appearances he has had to do for his book had slowed down, he was still getting bookings for talk shows (which he dreaded every single time).  

 

The waiter came over, and Jughead had an urge to tell him to go away, but of course he bit his tongue, and he had to sit through Ethel ordering a coffee and grilled cheese sandwich with ham.  When the waiter turned to him, he just said “Coffee, black.”  

 

When the waiter left, Ethel turned to him again.

 

“Jughead,” she said with martyr-like patience. “How’s Betty? How’s she doing?”

 

“She’s great,” Jughead said, suspiciously.  “Why do you ask?”

 

“So, two things,” Ethel said, leaning over.  “First--you know how books get optioned and--?”

 

“Never get made into movies, I know,” he muttered. God, was this Ethel’s great news? That his book got optioned?  Books were optioned all the time. Often with a shitty payoff. It wasn't a promise at all that it would be made into a movie.  So his book getting optioned meant very little to him. Not in the greater scheme of things, which was Betty waiting for him to get home.

 

“What I was _actually_ going to say was that books get optioned and get turned into a TV series for HBO.”

 

His gaze flickered for a moment, his scowl deepening. “What?”

 

“Jughead,” she said again, with the same maddening calm. She reached over and took his hands. “HBO producers called me a couple of weeks ago and said they were interested in taking your books and turning them into a TV series. I didn’t think much of it that first time they called, but then they called again, last week, and they had a proposal for a script, who the actors are going to be, what the concept is… this afternoon, they handed the proposal to me and a rough draft and a contract. A contract, Jughead. They are offering you $800,000 to turn your book into a TV series, to start! Believe it or not, that’s pretty paltry, but I’d imagine you’d want a lot of creative control and rights to any profit, so 800K is an excellently _low_ number to start with. This.   _This is happening.”_

 

She reached into her bag and pulled out a thick document. She plopped it right in front of Jughead, rattling the glasses and cutlery on the table.

 

Jughead’s mouth felt dry, and he looked at the thing in front of him and absolutely did not know how he should react.  All social norms indicate that he should be happy. He should be fucking over the moon at this news, but his mind had just gone very, very blank.

 

Ethel, her face filled with excitement and jubilating two seconds ago, was now frozen in an uncertain smile. “Say something, Jones.”

 

“Um, great!” He said, with a face reflecting none of the word’s sentiments.

 

“Yes, it’s great!” she cried, throwing her hands up. “This is every writer’s dream!  A TV series! It’s better than a movie, Jughead! Movies make a mess of books. They cut everything down to movie time and your characters and plot suffer. A TV series can actually do justice to the written word. The long, drawn out episodes--on HBO! This is George R.R. Martin levels, Jughead. You’re going to be freaking rich and famous!”

 

His stomach turned and he looked away, horrified at the prospect of his perfect life with Betty thrown into a hurricane of TV-fied books. He looked up at Ethel. “And you’re sure this is happening?”

 

Ethel nodded. “Yes! Why don’t you sound happy? Why do you look constipated right now?”

 

He lowered his head into his hands, pulling his beanie off. “I swear, I’m happy. I think. I’m just overwhelmed by this, Ethel. I don’t know how to feel. I need to talk to Betty.”

 

“Yes. Yes, talk to Betty. She will love this, I promise you. This is a wonderful thing, Jughead! I’ve read some of the contract, and there’s room for some negotiation still, which I will be working on tonight and Skyping about with you tomorrow, but the terms sound great, and if you look at the proposal, they have some really great actors already lined up.  They said they have a rough script, which you’ll get when you sign, and you can make changes as you see fit. Everything will go through you before the script goes to the directors. You will be notified of all changes.”

 

“And they want to do _Epistrophe,_ right?” he asked nonsensically.

 

“For the first season, yes,” she replied.  “Jughead--?”

 

“I’m sorry, Ethel. There’s just--a _lot_ of things are going on right now and they are all perfectly sectioned and--this is great but it’s throwing everything else off. What does this even mean? Where are they filming this?”

 

“New York!” Ethel said immediately. “This is all set here in New York. And so you don’t have to worry about moving you and your family out of Riverdale Farms. Jughead, this is early stages. We can ask for many things, still, and ultimately, you can say no.”

 

“I know ten people who will kill me if I say no to this. You will be the first one in line.”

 

“Third, tops. I bet Cheryl Blossom and Veronica will duke it out for first. But you know what? Betty will always have your back. Your happiness is all that matters to her, so that’s everything. Relax. Nothing is final. Give yourself some time to read this over, think about what you want, talk to Betty, and then you and I can talk details—let’s make it next week, not tomorrow, okay?”

 

“Do I have to sign this by then?”

 

“No, absolutely not. We talk then I negotiate for you. Not going to lie, we’ll probably need to decide in 3 weeks. Some actors are already signed, but a couple of the bigger ones won’t go unless you’re locked in to consult with the scriptwriters. They want you involved. The director wants you in, as well.”

 

“3 weeks,” Jughead whispered. “Fuck.”

 

“That’s plenty of time. This is going to be great, J. I promise you. And I’ll take care of you. Ask Veronica if she has recommendations for entertainment lawyers you can retain for this, particularly one that handles book to tv deals. If she doesn’t have anyone, I can get one, but her husband’s in the business. She’ll know the best ones.”

 

With that, her food arrived with his coffee. She talked a bit more about his third book, telling him that the publisher was already ringing her for his next book, and that they were open to renegotiate his package, knowing that other publishers have come calling.

 

He was still in the throes of the HBO news, however, so it barely registered that Ethel was telling him that she was ready to talk about the _second_ thing.

 

He blinked. “That wasn’t it? The renegotiation of the package?”

 

“What? No. That’s all par for the course. This other thing is different. So how’s Betty doing?”

 

“You already asked me that,” he said, grumpily.

 

She looked at him, waiting, presumably, for his apology.

 

He sighed. “I’m sorry. I know you work your butt off and this HBO thing didn’t fall from the sky. Thank you for this, Ethel. This is amazing, really.”

 

“You don’t sound like you believe it yet, but I’ll take it. You’re very welcome. And that’s the last we’ll say about it until next week. This other thing should be easy. How does Betty feel about publishing her own book?”

 

Jughead was definitely thrown by that. “What?”

 

Ethel went on. “Your publisher called me. They’re interested in presenting a proposal to her about a book they’d like her to write and publish. A lifestyle book about the things she does--the food, the styling, the bread, the interior designing. She is the epitome of homestead class and artistry. The imagery will be gorgeous and they intend to have her in those pages as much as taste allows. She is the Millennial Martha Stewart, who basically looks like Scarlett Johansson. And frankly, her New York City pedigree is impeccable--anchorwoman mother, CEO father, old money in laws… she is practically royalty. Your publishing company wants to make a star out of her, and they’re not wrong in thinking they could.”

 

_What the fuck is going on here?_

 

“Shouldn’t you be talking to _her_ about this? I’m her fiance, not her keeper.”

 

“I know you’re very protective of your friends and family, Jughead, and you are _especially_ protective about _her._ If I had gone to her directly without telling you first, you’d have fucking fired me.”

 

Jughead didn’t deny it.

 

“I didn’t want her to feel ambushed, and certainly not pressured, to do this,” Ethel explained. “So I felt going through you was appropriate. Just tell her I want to talk to her about this, and if she says yes, or if she says no, just let me know and I’ll do the rest. And this is just for me to call her and talk about it in more detail. No contracts, no nothing. Just preface it. That’s all I ask.”

 

He leaned back and stared at her, mulling it over.

 

“What do you say, Jones?”

 

He supposed this was a decision for Betty, after all. “Fine. I’ll tell her. But I’m not going to force her to talk to _anyone._ What she says goes, got that?”

 

Ethel banged the table triumphantly. “Got it! Loud and clear. This is going to be a fantastic year for you both. I can feel it!”

 

He had to chuckle at Ethel’s drive. In many ways, Ethel was the reason he had gotten anywhere in this business, and he would trust no one else with his career. He would trust Betty with Ethel. Ethel would take good care of her, just like she had taken care of him.

 

**********

 

He had a dozen pastrami egg rolls weighing down his backpack and a real need to get home to Betty as soon as possible. He got on his train to Riverdale from Penn Station and when he got off at the park and ride, he hightailed to Riverdale Farms on his motorcycle.

 

When he rolled through the farm gates, he saw that Kevin and Farmer John had gone for the day. He hurried inside the house and found her in the living room, folded up on the couch while watching _Firefly._

 

“Did you get them?” was the first thing she asked when she saw him.

 

He laughed, holding up the bag of egg rolls as he joined her on the couch. She looked so beautiful with her white, floor length sundress and her long braid slung over her shoulder, her face glowing with renewed health, that he couldn’t really be affronted.

 

Though only four months along in her pregnancy, her tummy was already sticking out, but that happened with twins. Apparently, Polly’s twins were not a fluke. Twins really did run in Cooper veins, and while Jughead pretty much had to get revived by smelling salts after the doctor told them “Two heartbeats!” he came to realize that his joy at this news was boundless.

 

Betty made a grab for the bag and Jughead held it out of reach.

 

“Juggie!” She cried, laughing.

 

“What happened to ‘I missed you today, Jughead’ or ‘Hello, father of my children’?”

 

She made a pleading face, wholly unapologetic. “But I’ve been thinking about those egg rolls _all day!”_

 

He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. Here. I got us a dozen.”

 

“You are an angel. A dark one. Who wears a lot of flannel,” she said, taking the bag, but she set it aside and she did proceed to kiss him, thoroughly enough that it seemed like she didn’t want to stop, and he never turned down her advances, because pregnant Betty was a very horny Betty and he was having the best sex of his life.

 

The couch proved perfect at the moment for the quick romp. With the sun setting low on the other side of the house, its rays refracting from the sky outside brought in a bit of light, and there was always something about the dim shades that made Betty look so alluring with the shadows.

 

Her farmgirl appeal was strong, and it always bowled him over. His pants slid down first along with his boxers. He slid off her panties, bunched up her dress, and with him sitting low on the couch, she straddled him and took him in her, moving immediately to a sensual cadence that made him want to grab her hips and fuck her harder.

 

But his first instinct of late had been leaning on the side of gentle. With her showing a bit more, the life inside her felt more real, and therefore his instinct to protect became consuming. He didn’t want to hurt her or the babies, because they _could_ get hurt, couldn’t they? They seemed so little. How could they possibly handle daddy being rough with mommy?

 

“God, Juggie,” she rasped in his ear. “I missed you.”

 

Closing his eyes as her hips moved to meet his, he couldn’t think of a single moment in the city where he hadn’t thought of her, one way or another.

 

It was always like that, but this was, he realized, the first time he’d been away from her since learning about the twins. He’d stayed home this entire time—the last ten weeks, just being with her.

 

Her morning sickness had been brutal. She couldn’t get anywhere without feeling sick and nauseous. She couldn’t tend to the animals and the soap factory had been an assault on her senses.

 

He had missed _her_ , but until now, he hadn’t entertained any thoughts about making love to her. It just seemed so unimportant when Betty could barely keep anything down and he had to worry about her health, constantly.

 

She’d only _now_ started to feel better.

 

She asked him _now_ to go harder, tugging almost painfully at his hair so she could kiss him, tongues meeting and breaths mingling.

 

Groaning, weak of will, and desperately turned on by her pleading tone, he tightened his grip on her thighs and met the rolling of her hips with the thrust of his.

 

Her approval was evident from the increasing volume of her moans. When he dug under the fabric of her dress to touch the sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs, her encouraging shouts scattered his senses, and all he wanted was to hear her scream his name.

 

He felt her fluttering around him almost immediately, and when she came, he pushed so hard into her that they moved the couch a foot, and he was spilling inside her, his groans filling the room.

 

They stayed that way for a few minutes, her body draped over his. He could feel the small bump of her belly, a soft pressure against his body, and it made him smile as he pressed soft kisses along her throat. She shifted and gently, he helped her off him. She settled beside him on the couch, catching her breath as she curled up beside him, burrowing into the crook of his arm.

 

“Hmm, how’s that for a ‘hello, I missed you’?” she teased.

 

“Baby, it was perfect,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head. He righted himself then, pulling his clothes back on so he could cuddle her properly.

 

After a few minutes basking in each other and exchanging tender words of love, they finally gave the pastrami egg rolls the attention they deserved.

 

Betty bit into her egg roll as if it were the rarest treat in the world. “Mmm, that is _so_ delicious, but do you know what would make this better, Juggie? Sriracha mayo and a tall glass of soda.”

 

That was, of course, his cue to get all that for her, which he obliged with a chuckle.

 

He grabbed the stuff from the kitchen, and just because he knew her, he grabbed the jar of kosher pickles as well.

 

“You know me so well!” she cried, delighted at the pickles.

 

They ate the rolls and he watched, lovingly, Betty and her enjoyment of the food.

 

Living with her for a little over a year, he had come to realize that Betty’s cooking had been a form of vicarious eating. She made food that fed other people. She watched them enjoy what she made, thoroughly. She reveled in seeing everyone consume her dishes down to their crumbs, but she herself so quietly practiced the discipline that had carried on from her mother’s strict raising of her and maybe some of what he came to call Ballet Bootcamp.

 

It took pregnancy hunger--with _twins_ \--to let herself enjoy food, with the same abandon as everyone else. The doctors had given her strict orders to eat a certain number of calories, which she followed almost obsessively, but the extra calories required by the twins certainly gave her more than she was used to.

 

The twins had been unexpected. The pregnancy had been unexpected, to begin with.

 

**********

 

It was a year to the day he had arrived at the farm and met her, that rainy summer evening when, dripping wet, he had stood on her porch and expected a kindly old lady to answer the door, because who the hell was named Betty these days except 80 year old ladies?

 

So when the door opened and he stared into the face of this gorgeous blonde angel, he was completely done for. She had let him into her house and within minutes was in awe of her capabilities, her friendliness, the way she radiated warmth so quickly, and then her food. God, that glorious food.

 

So a year to the day, living with her and loving her, he had gotten on his knee in front of their fireplace and asked Betty Cooper to marry him, and she had said “Yes, yes, _yes!”_

 

He still cherished the feeling, of her acceptance of him. Her voice showed no hesitation, her face so full of joy and love. When he slipped the ring on her finger, she cried, kissing him and making him feel like he was all she ever wanted. He had never felt so wanted than when he was with her, and he couldn’t help but appreciate it, always.

 

He had grown up in a system that made him feel like trash for a number of years, and he hadn’t quite let go of his insecurities when the Lodges took him in, especially since their lifestyle was so foreign from what he had been born to. So even if he had sat with them at dinner, attended their parties, and lived in their house, he had always felt like the poor relation that was imposing on their good graces, for a long time.

 

Of course, his gratitude for the Lodges was deep. No matter how little he earned in his minimum wage jobs in highschool, he always got them _something_ for Christmas and birthdays, and they were all so very kind and appreciative of what he got them. So when he earned big bucks from his book, his gifts to them got _way_ better, and there was nothing more satisfying than Hermione Lodge saying in a hushed, and probably impressed, tone, _“Ay, mijo…_ you didn’t have to, but thank you!”  He loved the Lodges, and it did take him a while to feel like they loved him for him and not because they were obligated to.

 

But with Betty, it had been effortless. She loved _him_ the way he knew himself to be. She and he grew into one another like wild flowers, with all the beautiful colors and weeds, natural and unhampered.

 

They fit, creating a symmetry in each other’s lives that they never thought possible, so Jughead didn’t hesitate when he realized that _now_ was the time to ask her to marry him.

 

Three weeks after their engagement, Betty found out she was eight weeks pregnant.

 

*******************

 

Admittedly, their efforts at contraception had been haphazard of late. Sometimes they just got so lost in each other that to a certain degree, they should’ve known it would happen. It was almost as if they _wanted_ it to happen.

 

Maybe they did.

 

Because as much as a surprise the pregnancy was, it was quickly established that this was _wonderful_ news.

 

It took him about ten seconds, staring at those two pink lines of the pregnancy test stick she had given him, and he was lifting her off the ground, spinning her around in their bedroom, kissing her and praising her for being so clever, as if _she_ had everything to do with it, because _how_ could he have possibly made something so beautiful as a baby in her belly?

 

Of course he knew how, but he figured that was the easy part.

 

Finding out that they were going to have twins was more joy than he could handle. He did pass out, and he did have to be revived, and it was a story Archie never tired of laughing over.

 

***********

 

Telling FP first about the engagement, then the pregnancy with the twins, was a memory so sweet it left Jughead with pangs.

 

“She said yes, pop!” he told FP over the phone, of their engagement. He was sure his grin was carrying over the line.

 

“Kid,” FP had said. “I had no doubts. When I see you two together, you look at her like she’s the sun and she looks at you like you hung the moon. Hell, the first time I met her, I _knew_ you were going to marry her.”

 

Jughead had laughed. They both did. There had absolutely been no way FP could have known that Betty would have said yes to him, but Jughead did believe that he had that look in his eyes, when he looked at _her_ , that told FP she was the one for Jughead.

 

FP had talked to Betty then, telling her how happy he was for them, for his boy, that he had found someone who loved him so well.

 

“He deserves it, FP,” she had said in an impossibly loving tone. “He is _such_ a good man. I’m so proud of him.”

 

He didn’t think loving her more was possible until then.

 

When Jughead and Betty told him about the twins, the did so in person, at FP’s house..

 

They told him out in the backyard, drinking iced tea, and FP burst into tears. He sobbed against his son’s shoulder, and Jughead understood why.

 

Whatever mistakes FP had made in his life, it had always stemmed from his desperate need to take care of his family. His alcoholism came as a side effect to the pressure, a means to cope while he was in over his head. All the while, he watched as decision after decision made things worse, and he saw his family deteriorate. Jughead was the one person who held out for him as long as he wasn’t in jail. Jughead was the one person FP hoped he wouldn’t break.

 

He didn’t want Jughead to be a broken man. He didn’t want Jughead growing into someone gone of faith. He didn’t want Jughead thinking that happiness was for others, not him.

 

For a while, FP was afraid that’s what Jughead had become. In spite of Jughead’s career taking off, Jughead had relationships devoid of emotion. He got through his twenties without a single meaningful relationship, and in FP’s heart, he was frightened that he had broken his boy.

 

So the news of the twins, with Jughead’s face alight, his hand on Betty’s knee, and his arm clasped in her loving embrace, FP saw that Jughead was whole.

 

And it was overwhelming.

 

It took several minutes for FP to compose himself, and only then did he turn to Betty, hugging her so tight and thanking her so profusely that she had to ask him to let go a little, mostly so she could breathe.

 

*************

 

Because of the twins, Betty and Jughead were moving the wedding up a couple of months. It had been slated as an intimate affair to begin with, so it wasn’t a problem, logistically, but they did need to round up their troops sooner.

 

Among the first on their list were the best man, maid of honor, bridesmaids, and groomsmen, but with most of that list easily and so predictably filled (Archie as Best Man, Kevin as Man of Honor, and Veronica, Cheryl, Polly, JB, Kevin, Reggie, Chic, and Farmer John--as the rest of their entourage), there was still the matter of who would be walking Betty down the aisle, and given Hal’s tenuous relationship with his daughter the past few years, Betty wanted it to be FP.

 

Words could not describe how emotional FP got when Betty asked him. And naturally, FP couldn’t be happier.

 

**********

 

With their entourage fully informed, they needed a wedding planner. Even wanting the wedding held and celebrated in Riverdale Farms, they decided that Betty wasn’t going to coordinate her own wedding. With Kevin fast-tracking the expansion and weatherproofing of the barn where the wedding and reception would be held, Cheryl was given the task of presenting wedding planners to her.

 

It was brutal, and Jughead was still convinced it was because Cheryl felt slighted that Kevin beat her for the Maid of Honor spot.

 

Betty was pregnant, hormones in constant flux, and she was not her usual, forgiving self.

 

Planner #1 was all pomp and fanfare that thoroughly offended Betty’s sensibilities. She had listened to the planner’s spiel, at first patiently, but when the planner said “Riding on a beautiful white horse!” Jughead knew it was over. Betty’s eyes had widened, turning furiously and wordlessly at Cheryl, and with lips pursed and trembling, she walked out of the room in a thunderous huff.

 

The doom and gloom of Planner #2 was practically Kafkaesque. Betty was livid. She _cried,_ anxious that she was projecting some morbid dark vibe that Cheryl was picking up on, because she could not understand how Cheryl would think she would go for that.

 

It turned out that Cheryl was aiming in _his_ direction, which wasn’t that much better of an excuse, because he prided himself of the fact that he was less sarcastic and morose to new acquaintances of late.

 

The third and final wedding planner won by a landslide. His ideas were elegant, charming, and just the right touch of rustic, exactly up Betty’s alley.

 

Betty had exacting tastes, but she was open to the wedding planner’s ideas. He made suggestions, she chose from the options he offered, then nip-tucked where necessary.

 

So everything was _finally_ rolling along nicely and neatly. He was going to marry the woman of his dreams in a lovely, intimate ceremony, and they were going to have twins soon after. It was perfect.

 

But now he had to jam a new dimension into the mix, and he didn’t know how much of a disruption it would be.

 

***************

 

When Betty curled up beside him in bed, her hand reaching up to rub his arm while telling him to put the book down and cuddle with her, he was tempted to do exactly that, but he knew he had to tell her about his meeting with Ethel before they went to bed. If he waited any longer, it would border dangerously on him keeping things from her, which was a line he never wanted to cross.

 

“I need to tell you a couple of things,” he said, sliding down in the sheets to get closer to her, but not so much that they were poised to lull themselves to sleep.  

 

Her eyes perked, a little less sleepy than she was two seconds ago.  She didn’t look alarmed and he didn’t want her to be. There was nothing particularly alarming about what he had to say, and he had a feeling that he was the only one who saw the negatives of all this before embracing the positives.

 

“Ethel met with me in the city--did I tell you she was one of my meetings?” he began.

 

She nodded. “You mentioned it, I think.”

 

“We met at this trendy new restaurant with overpriced grilled cheese sandwiches,” he said, and he knew he was stalling, but Betty waited patiently for what he was trying to get at. “And so Ethel tells me that HBO called her because they want to turn my books into a TV series…”

 

Betty’s eyes slowly widened in surprise, and then she was smiling, pressing her hand to his cheeks in that way that made him feel like a million bucks. “Oh, Jughead! This is amazing! _Your_ books! Your hard work. I am _so_ proud of you!”

 

And of course she would say it that way, because in the grand scheme of things, it was those books he was most proud of. They were _his_ work. _His_ passion. HBO was just some rich folks recognizing that his books were good enough to be on TV.  

 

But he must have looked about as excited about it as he was when Ethel was telling him this news, and while she didn’t stop smiling, she looked at him with compassionate eyes.

 

“Juggie,” she said softly. “Love, this is a good thing. You know that, right?”

 

“Cognitively…”

 

She sighed and sat up in bed, then she leaned back against the pillows and headboard.  She took his hand and put it on her rounded belly.  

 

He smiled and rubbed the cute bulge, but then he felt it, a couple of flutters against his palm.

 

“B-Betts!” he gasped.  “Betty, they--”

 

“Kicked. I know. I’ve been feeling it the last couple of days, but I wasn’t sure if it was them or gas, but it’s them. It’s about the right time. I’m going on 18 weeks.  It’s our babies, Juggie…”

 

He leaned over, pressing his ear to her stomach and rubbing it gently.  “Hey there, little bugs. Dad can’t wait to meet you.” He pressed kisses on her tummy, wishing they can feel it.

 

Betty smiled, running her fingers lightly in Jughead’s hair.  “Baby, you have to stop being afraid of the good things that come your way.  It’s not going to go to shit and your touch is not poison. These babies… are you going to think that they’re going to be less than beautiful and perfect?”

 

Startled by her words, he straightened, his heart aching at the question, even if he knew it was rhetorical. “Of course not, Betty! I know these babies are going to be the best thing that’s ever happened to us both.”

 

She nodded, cupping his face in her hands. “Those books are your life’s work, Juggie, and the world wants to appreciate it. It’s surely going to be a lot of work and you probably won’t be able to work the farm as much as you like, but this is _your_ work and you must let it grow. Don’t ever forget that. You created this and what you say, goes. So you don’t have to worry about it turning your life upside down.  Everyone will be here for you, just as you’ve been here for us, okay? Now, please, will you enjoy this for what it is? An awesome opportunity to see your work come to life? This is such an amazing thing. I can’t even wrap my head around it yet!”

 

He smiled, and for the first time since he’d heard the news, he actually felt good about it.  This _was_ a dream come true. This was epic. And oh, the great things that could be done with it, putting it to a screen.  

 

He rubbed her belly again. “At least mommy and daddy don’t have to worry about your college funds anymore…”

 

The pay off, he thought, was certainly welcome.

 

So he resolved to read the documentation Ethel gave him the following morning, and make some calls to Veronica about getting that entertainment lawyer.  

 

On the matter of his publishing company being interested in Betty, he explained it quickly, and when he was done, she lay back in bed, biting her lip. She was thinking about it.

 

“And when, if ever, do you think I would have to start working on this book?” she asked.

 

He shrugged. “Depends on when it needs to get published. If they slate it for 2019, close to the fall, then you’ll probably start working on it four or five months from now because it’ll take them that long to put a proper proposal together for you and then get you signed to do it.”

 

She sighed.  “The babies are coming in 5 months. I can’t start writing a book when there are new humans to take care of.”

 

“Then they’ll probably move it to a more comfortable time frame,” he said, gently. “Even if you do agree to talk to Ethel, you don’t have to do it. If you want to do it, you can tell them _when_ you want to do it. This is going to be a lifestyle book about _your_ work. There are going to be camera crews here and you’re going to direct set up and it’s going to be a lot to handle. So yeah, do it on your terms.”

 

She cocked a small smile. “Do people really still buy lifestyle books? Do they actually follow the tips and recipes in them?”

 

Jughead chuckled. “Some do, but I’m thinking 90% of the folks who buy them make them coffee table books.  Pretty pictures and all that.  But you want real talk? The publisher’s end game here is to turn you into a star, like Martha Stewart or something.”

 

She made a sound. “Ugh. That sounds awful.”

 

“Your choice, babe.”

 

“We’ll see. Tell Ethel I’ll talk to her, but no promises.”

 

“She knows.”

 

With all the news told and the hour growing late, they sank into the sheets, drifting off to sleep.

 

*************

 

When Chic called Betty to ask her if she was willing to meet with their parents, Betty had to dig deep not to get mad at her big brother.

 

It wasn’t Chic’s fault. He was and always will be a kind of peacemaker. He was their golden child and he never thought badly about any of them.  At this point, the wedding was a month away and Betty was at 20 weeks.

 

Her belly was feeling heavy and big against her small frame and sleep was already uncomfortable. She was not in the best frame of mind to have stressful conversations with her estranged parents.

 

“If all they want to do is lecture me and tell me I could’ve chosen another life, then I’m not interested in meeting, Chic,” she had said, testily.

 

“It’s not like that,” he said in his quiet, but efficient tone. “They want to make amends. They want to apologize. And I think they want to be part of your kids’ lives.”

 

“We’ll talk about amends and apologies first. I get to decide if they’ll be part of my family’s life. Did they even mention Jughead in all this?”

 

“He’s a published author with HBO knocking at his door, of course there was mention of him. They’re properly impressed.”

 

She grit her teeth, knowing that it was probably the reason they were amenable to talking to her in the first place.  She was marrying someone they thought eligible, and as proud as she was of what Jughead has accomplished, it really pissed her off that they never would’ve given him the time of day if he had been unpublished or working the beat in a news organization. And how would they treat FP? She dreaded that meeting already.

 

“Three things, Chic,” she said.

 

“Name it.”

 

“First, if they want to apologize and make real amends, they have to be sincere about it. No patronizing comments. No Stepford Wives smile.”

 

“Okay, I think I can socialize that.”

 

“Second, they need to dial down their snobbery. God knows, I can hear mother making nasty comments about people for being disadvantaged one way or another. Just basic decency and compassion is what I ask.”

 

“How am I supposed to tell mom and dad to dial down the snobbery?”

 

She frowned. “I don’t know, Chic. It’s not that hard.”

 

He gave a long suffering sigh. “Fine, what else?”

 

“And third, they do not get to tell me what to do. In my life. Not anymore. The most they can do is pick a meeting place and I may show up. Are we clear?”

 

“That third one’s a doozie.”

 

“Unless they get that in their heads, there will be no reconciliation.

 

“I will let them know.”

 

When Betty dropped the call, she realized that Jughead had been watching her and listening to her side of the conversation for God knew how long.

 

She sighed and set her phone down on her desk, sitting tiredly on her chair as she did so.  Jughead went to her immediately, taking her hands and hushing her gently as he uncurled her fingers.

 

She hadn’t even realized it, the way her nails were digging into her palms.

 

“Shit,” she hissed, casting him a look of despair.

 

“Betty,” he said in a soothing tone. “Do your parents want to talk?”

 

She nodded. “Whatever that means to them, ‘talking.’ A world of pain, probably.”

 

He looked concerned, saying nothing. He had very little concept of what her parents had been like. Sure, she had told him why she had cut them off, and that’s understandably a bad impression, but Jughead was a writer. He didn’t believe in one dimensional characters, in fiction or in real life.

 

“Do _you_ want to talk to them?” he asked.

 

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe? But it’s a risk. I don’t know if it’s worth it. The wedding’s in a month and these babies are due in 20 weeks. I have concerns bigger than my impossible and insufferable parents.”

 

“If dad and I hadn’t reconciled and he told me tomorrow that he wanted to talk to me, promising me that he’s staying clean and staying out of trouble, what would you say to me?”

 

She sighed. “Juggie, you know I love FP.”

 

“I know, but he was in _jail,_ Betts. And he was in a gang. He was an alcoholic who was such an absentee father that I was homeless. Knowing all that, what would you say to me?”

 

“God, maybe I’ll tell you to give him this one chance, and that’s it.”  

 

“Then I’ll tell you the same thing. And I will be there with you, so the moment things get hairy, I’m pulling you out. If I have to carry you out, that’s what I’ll do.”

 

She had to chuckle at that. “Remember the last time you carried me? And there was only one of me.”

 

He laughed. “Well, I’ll at least make it out of whatever establishment your parents choose. Provided there are no stairs I have to climb.”

 

“God, why did I even give them that choice? It’s going to be an impossibly expensive restaurant where I can’t dramatically leave money at if I have to walk out of it.”

 

He grinned. “I’ll have you know that I came upon some $800,000 that we can burn through, baby. I got you. And there may be plenty more where that came from.”

 

She couldn’t help the swell of pride that bloomed from her chest at his happiness that he was able to provide for them so well. “Stop. College fund, remember?”

 

“Sweetheart, if our kids’ college costs us 800K, it better be on a fucking space station on Mars.”

 

She giggled, so thankful for Jughead and how he can make her laugh, even amidst the looming threat of her parents.

 

He smoothed her hair back from her face. “It’s going to be alright, baby. And if they’re really nasty, I give you permission to use the little bugs as leverage to force their good behavior.” He rubbed her belly then kissed it. “Momma’s gonna need all the help she can get, y’ hear?Team Jones gonna kick ass and take names!”

 

She smiled at him lovingly and twirled the hair that came loose from his beanie. “I’ve been thinking Margaret for our little girl.”

 

He rubbed her arm. “I can call her Peg. It’s such a pretty name, Betts. I love it. And our little boy?”

 

“Liam’s nice, isn’t it? Ryan’s a lovely name, too…”

 

“How about Trevor?” he suggested, quietly. “It’s nice and steady and I know good men with that name.”

 

Her eyes filled and the tears spilled. “Really, Juggie? You don’t mind that name?”

 

“Not in the least. He took care of you and made you happy. He lifted you up and you found yourself and this place because of him. Why would I mind?”

 

She leaned over and kissed him. “I love you. So, so much.”

 

“I love you, too. Now come on. If you want to make your doctor’s appointment, we gotta leave _now.”_

 

_***********_

 

Alice Cooper was smiling and Betty was feeling sick to her stomach. This was a bad idea.

 

The babies gave a kick in her side and she flinched, rubbing the spot. She turned to run away but collided with Jughead’s chest.

 

“Whoa, now!” he said softly. “Where do you think you’re going?”

 

She made a face, her side still aching dully from the baby flutters. “Out. I need to get _out.”_

 

Jughead scowled with concern. “Are you okay? Something hurting?”

 

“The babies are frisky, but I’m okay. I just don’t think I want to do this right now--”

 

Jughead shushed her and rubbed her arms and shoulders soothingly. “Take deep breaths, Betts. You’re agitated.”

 

“You’re damn right--” she cut herself off and sighed, willing herself to stop and take deep breaths, just as Jughead had suggested. “Is she still smiling?”

 

He arched an eyebrow. “Your mother? She’s looking our way. She’s spotted you, I think. She has _stopped_ smiling.”

 

“I can feel her criticism sticking to me already. She’s probably thinking I’m fat and that I look tired, and shit, I think I forgot to shave my legs! _Fuck…”_

 

“You are _not_ fat,” he said pointedly. “And fuck it if you were. You’re feeding two other human beings and your ass will probably look twice as sexy.”

 

She laughed, though the pained expression never left her face. “Juggie, if she starts off with the slightest hint of criticism, I will spiral, and it will be all over.”

 

“I won’t let her get away with it. Trust me. She doesn’t scare me. Hell, Cheryl doesn’t scare me, so why should Alice?”

 

Betty shook her head. “Cheryl lays it out there and lets you know she’s going for the jugular. Mom… she coats it in perfume and slathers it with sugar, then shoves it down your throat until you choke on it.”

 

He seemed amused by that. “Listen, I promise you, I’ll be the hero you need me to be. Don’t be afraid. It’s going to be fine.”

 

She sighed, nodding. She couldn’t help but think that she had gone way out of her way to look a little Stepford-y in spite of herself. Her pink, empire dress and flats weren’t cheap. She had busted out her pearls and she had actually clipped her hair elegantly on the side.

 

Probably following her lead, Jughead had worn a suit. And a tie. She wanted to beg him to go rogue and wear jeans and a tshirt, to show off his tattoos, and maybe he can wear that inexplicable but adorable beanie of his, too, but he was an adult, after all, so he had put on a suit without being told. The only saving grace were the suspenders he wore underneath his coat, which were striped blue with little yellow motorcycles printed on it, of all things.

 

She marched up to her parents’ table and they got up as she approached.

 

Her mother looked impeccable. Her Jackie-O like Chanel suit was a nice, dusty grey with black trim. She had pearls, too. The only other piece of jewelry she wore was the tasteful gold watch on her wrist. Probably Cartier or David Yurman.

 

She looked a little closer and it was _definitely_ David Yurman.

 

God, she wanted to run away so bad.

 

Her father looked slightly like he came from work, which he probably did. As CEO of a major car company, he worked _Sundays_ . That he wore a perfectly tailored suit wasn’t unusual. All his suits were tailored special, and _his_ watch was a Bvlgari.

 

She wished desperately that some of Jughead’s tattoos would peek out of his sleeves.

 

She looked. No such luck. Apparently, Jughead knew how to pick a well fitting suit, himself.

 

“Betty,” said Alice in a somewhat wistful tone that Betty was not familiar with. “Thank you for coming.” She held Betty by the shoulders and squeezed. She seemed a little wary, and Betty was fine with that. She didn’t think she could bear closer contact than that.

 

“Your mother and I are thankful you’ve agreed to meet with us, sweetie,” Hal Cooper said, his tone warmer.

 

Betty at least knew her father was sincere. She had never questioned her father’s affections for her. They were real and mostly unconditional, but Hal’s problem had always been the fact that he never stuck up for his kids even when Alice was pushing too hard. After all these years in Betty and Alice’s cold war, Hal never even tried to call Betty, probably for fear of his wife finding out.

 

Betty nodded, cautiously. “Sure, dad.” She looped her arm around Jughead’s. “This is Jughead Jones, my fiance. Juggie, meet my parents, Alice and Hal Cooper.”

 

Jughead managed to eke out a tight lipped smile as he held out his hand to shake Alice’s and Hal’s. “Pleased to meet you--Alice. Hal.” He sounded cautious, himself, but only because Jughead was naturally wary of strangers.

 

She was thankful that Jughead wasn’t pretending to be friendlier than he was. It was comforting, his steady, reliable aloofness. If he had acted out of character, she might have screamed.

 

“A pleasure to meet you, Jug-head!” Alice gushed. “We’ve only heard good things about you! And of course I read your books. Very compelling. The writing is amazing! I’m not surprised every single one made the New York Times Bestsellers list. Isn’t that right, Hal?”

 

“For sure, honey,” Hal replied, automatically.

 

Betty wanted to ask Hal if he even read the books, but she didn’t come here to humiliate them.

 

Jughead’s face rested between a scowl and a smile. “Thank you. I’m, uh, lucky, I guess.”

 

It was just like Jughead to downplay it immediately, but she didn’t need to go into detail about Jughead’s accomplishments. Alice probably knew everything about him at this point. She probably knew about FP and Jughead’s gang past. Alice was nothing if not thorough.

 

“Why don’t we sit?” Hal said.

 

Jughead pulled a chair for her and held her arm to lower her on the chair. Her bump wasn’t completely blocking her view of everything from the waist down yet, but none of her ballet training could make sitting down with a baby bump graceful. Jughead tucked her in her seat, rubbed her shoulders gently, and kissed the top of her head.

 

She looked up at him gratefully, immediately clasping his hand under the table after he sat.

 

“We didn’t want to start without you,” Hal continued. “This place is _great._ We can order ala carte, but then we can also opt for the special menu, which is basically a seven course meal that gets rolled out to us with artsy flair. Your mother said you would like that aesthetic, Betty. You were always a fan of haute cuisine.”

 

Her hands clenched, but she only realized that when Jughead’s own hand tried to release the tension in them.

 

“Not to be difficult,” Betty said through grit teeth. “But how are we supposed to talk if we have to watch the food getting served to us every ten minutes?”

 

Betty recognized that on a regular day, she would’ve said that more kindly, but with her mother being there and her hormones removing the brakes on her emotions the last few months, it was way too much effort to edit herself.

 

Her mother shot Hal a withering look that could’ve stopped a rampaging army.

 

“We should order,” Jughead said, easily. He may not be the most socially affable guy in the room, but he sure as hell knew how to handle Betty.

 

“Right,” Alice said, looking at the menu.

 

Betty tried to breathe, looking at the restaurant’s offerings. Hal and Jughead went for the steak. Betty opted for the salmon and Alice chose the chicken.

 

As their waiter took their orders and left, Alice turned to Betty and began to say, “Isn’t fish ba--?”

 

“Hal,” Jughead interrupted unexpectedly. “Have you ever had a chance to try Betty’s steak? It’s amazing. This place has a high bar to cross. They better bring their A-game.”

 

Alice’s lips pursed and Betty arched an eyebrow expectantly. Jughead _was_ a hero. Whatever Alice was going to say was bound to be triggering and Jughead had neutralized it like a champ.

 

“Betty always knew her way around a kitchen. Isn’t that right, Hal?” Alice asked.

 

Hal swallowed. “Yes. Got it from her mother, I think. Aren’t we lucky, Jug-head?”

 

“Yep,” he replied, showing a slight hint of tension fatigue.

 

Betty felt embarrassed for her family’s inability to be comfortable at the dinner table. Her hormones reared again. “Mom, this is kind of ridiculous. Can we just--I don’t want Jughead to be subjected to any more of our shit, and dad, for God’s sake, grow a fucking pair!”

 

Alice and Hal looked properly stunned. Betty supposed tucking an F word in there had been a bit much, but if things didn’t start to look up, she was done.

 

Betty leaned back on her seat and felt tears stinging her eyes.

 

Jughead sighed, leaning over to hold both her hands in his. “Baby, don’t. It’s going to be okay.” He took out a packet of tissues and Betty actually laughed, realizing that they _all_ kept tissues now because of Farmer John.

 

“There’s not a lot left,” Jughead muttered. “Farmer John had a crying jag the other day. Apparently, Misty’s going to be a mama.”

 

Betty laughed even more, tilting her gaze at Jughead appreciatively. She touched his face and kissed him softly, giving zero fucks about her parents being there and watching this. In fact, she wanted them to see what it was like to have a loving, caring relationship, free of pretensions and prescriptions.

 

When she was better composed, she turned her attention back to the table.

 

“So I hear you wanted to apologize and make amends,” she said. “Let's hear it, then.”

 

Alice and Hal exchanged looks.

 

It was Alice who started. “Yes. We wanted to apologize to you, about how we treated Trevor in the past and how, after his death, we were…”

 

“Heartless,” Hal said.

 

Alice’s eyes widened furiously, but she bit her tongue and continued, “Insensitive and rude. We should have shown more compassion and empathy. More support.”

 

Betty liked what she was hearing so far, but she wasn’t quite ready to give in. “Are there other things you want to apologize for?” She was looking for specifics, and she wasn’t being unreasonable here. Her mother should’ve spent the last few years realizing her wrongs, from the big stuff to the small.

 

Alice took a deep breath. “I apologize for calling Trevor a hick, constantly. I apologize for sending you pills in the mail. I apologize for that time I sent you a check to buy the farm so you can come back to the city. And I apologize for telling Trevor that you only married him to piss me off.”

 

That hit Betty hard, and she started to cry again. Jughead rubbed her neck soothingly.

 

She nodded. “And you probably believed it, too! God, that was a horrible thing to say.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Alice said, this time more softly. “I was cruel and foolish. And--I _was_ being racist. There is no way around it. It’s how I was acting and it was in my heart. I know that now and I admit it. I regret that now. I am trying to make up for that, too.”

 

Betty blinked. She had to admit that she was a little surprised at that last part, but she understood how hard that was for Alice to say.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t stand up to your mother,” Hal said.

 

Betty was a little shocked by that one. Judging by Alice’s face, so was she.

 

“But the truth was,” Hal continued, “I didn’t respect your decisions, either. Your mother and I were just Good Cop, Bad Cop and I decided I was going to be Good Cop. I’m sorry I let you and your sister down.”

 

Betty hadn’t expected much from Hal tonight, but this was kind of a milestone. “I appreciate your honesty, dad. And I appreciate everything you’ve said, mom, but only time will tell if you’re really sorry about all of that.”

 

Alice nodded. Whatever she had expected Betty to say, Alice seemed to think this was going positively. “Absolutely. Your father and I totally understand that, so we decided that we wanted to prove to you that we want to start off on the right foot.” She reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. “Mind you, this is not to buy back your forgiveness. We just want you to know that we will do what it takes to get back in your life and your trust.”

 

Betty was a little hesitant to accept the envelope. She looked at Jughead for his thoughts and he jerked his head in Alice’s direction, which looked to Betty like he was encouraging her to take it.

 

She did, and when she opened it, she found a check and her mother’s monogrammed card. The handwritten note said:

 

_“When we give cheerfully and accept gratefully, everyone is blessed.” --Maya Angelou_

 

It was a very Alice quote, calculating and with a world of meaning, but it was a good choice. At least Betty knew she was still being ineffably Alice.

 

She looked at the check. It was written out to the youth outreach and fostering center that Betty frequented, and it was a considerable sum.

 

There was really nothing to say except “Thank you,” which she did graciously.

 

“Your father and I also want you to know that we’ve volunteered a lot of our time and money the past few years to a few other causes. The shelter for battered women is my pet cause.”

 

Betty was pleased to hear it, but she fidgeted uneasily, giving Jughead an uncertain look. Her mother was nothing if not passive aggressive. Was this her way of saying she thought her daughters were being abused?

 

Jughead’s brows began to furrow. He might be wondering as well.

 

Alice must have seen it because she hastily added, “It isn’t because I _ever_ thought you or Polly were being abused by your partners, dear. It’s just a cause I believe in, that’s all.”

 

“Okay,” Betty said carefully.

 

“And, I’ve been giving some time to the Youth Drug Awareness center in Newark,” Hal said. “I figured a lot of what happened to Polly started at home. It could’ve been you, too, Betty. And for all I know, Chic could have been just as bad. As it was, you got dragged into it anyway.”

 

Betty felt her heart begin to soften. “Chic is Captain America. He never would have done any of that.”

 

Hal shook his head and lowered his gaze. “We were always easier on Chic. Your mother and I pushed you and Polly very hard.”

 

Alice made a motion to protest but Hal shot her a warning look.

 

“Alice,” he said, quietly, but sternly. “It’s true. And all it did was drive Polly to drugs and _you_ away. We want our family to be whole again, Betty. We want to get to know Jug-head over here, and we want your children to know who we are. We want to be able to go to your farm on holidays, and it would be nice if you came to the penthouse every once in awhile with your family. I know that Jug-head will be in the city a lot once filming for his book starts--he can live with us. We have the space.”

 

She squeezed Jughead’s hand, intent on protecting him from her parents. “Jughead _has_ places to stay. His best friends live here, also in a penthouse. And when they can’t have him, Cheryl has an open invitation for him as well.”

 

“Cheryl?” Alice said, surprised. She turned to Jughead. “Cheryl Blossom?”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Jughead replied, flashing that smirk that never failed to make Betty’s stomach bottom out.

 

Betty tried not to laugh at the look on her mother’s face, like she was winded and flustered. She looked away with a scowl. Clearly, Jughead’s smirk appealed to all ages.

 

“Jughead and Cheryl are really good friends, mom. I’m surprised Polly hasn’t mentioned that.”

 

Alice’s lips pursed and Hal sighed.

 

“Polly keeps it short with us,” Hal said. “I suppose you aren’t the only one we should be apologizing to.”

 

Alice didn’t object.

 

Betty was glad that at least they acknowledged that, too. “Yeah. Polly might appreciate that. Do that and you can come to our wedding.”

 

Alice nodded. “We would like to be at your wedding, Betty.”

 

Hal smiled. “That would make us very happy.”

 

“You’ll be our guest, but dad, I should tell you--Jughead’s dad, FP, will be walking me down the aisle.”

 

Hal seemed surprised by it, then disappointed. “Oh.”

 

Jughead caught her gaze, his eyes soft. “Betts--”

 

“Juggie,” she interrupted him, softly, because she knew Jughead was going to offer that FP didn’t have to. “I want it to FP. Dad, I’m sorry, but FP has been so good to me. He’s _been there_ and I couldn’t think of anyone else I want to walk me down that aisle. Besides, you didn’t want the job the first time I got married, remember?”

 

Hal looked at his hands. “No. You’re right. I’m just glad I could be there, sweetie.”

 

Jughead’s lips pursed, and she could tell that convinced him of FP’s rightful place in that regard. He hadn’t know about Hal’s refusal with Trev--she didn’t tell him about that, so this was news to him, and when it came to her, Jughead was fiercely protective.

 

By the time the food arrived, Betty was fairly certain that the most difficult parts of their meet up were behind them. While tonight’s apologies weren’t going to erase years of painful words and silences, this was a step in the right direction, and the truth was, Betty was optimistic.

 

If Jughead found it in his heart to forgive his father for FP’s transgressions, she can find it in her heart to begin to forgive her parents. Alice was still Alice, but she was trying to make a better version of herself and Betty had no doubt Alice would succeed. She was a goal oriented woman, after all.

 

They fell to talking about the twins, and when Alice asked if they knew what they were going to have, Jughead proudly said they were having a boy and a girl.

 

“Well, Betty is nothing if not efficient,” Alice managed to joke.

 

“Mom,” she responded, blushing.

 

Jughead actually found that funny. He looked at her fondly and rubbed her shoulder with clear affection.

 

“Do you have names picked out?” Hal asked.

 

Jughead nodded. “Margaret for our baby girl and Trevor for our baby boy.”

 

Alice gave them a tight lipped smile. “Margaret and Trevor Jones. Those are lovely names.”

 

“Thanks, mom,” Betty said.

 

Alice nodded, and Betty found, to her surprise, that it was nice talking to her parents again.

 

*************

 

It was too late at night to drive the 80 miles back to Riverdale, so Archie and Veronica let them stay at their penthouse overnight.

 

The couple were only too glad to have them, trying to make grand plans for the next day, but Jughead told them they had to get back to the farm, and that Betty needed a bit of rest after the evening’s stressful dinner.

 

Archie and Veronica’s 7 month old, Freddie, was already crawling all over the place, and of course the two were letting him run wild.

 

Jughead was a little less blase about letting babies crawl unattended, underfoot.

 

It was funny to watch Jughead drinking a beer in one hand and carrying a baby in the other. He was, however, surprisingly comfortable with it, and he walked around with the baby on his hip while he and Archie talked casually in Archie’s mini sound studio.

 

“He is so great with Freddie,” Veronica gushed. “Look at the sprout falling asleep on Jug’s shoulder. The man isn’t even trying.”

 

It was true. Freddie was blinking sleepily, his head draped over Jughead’s shoulder like a contented cat. He would be asleep in a minute and Jughead didn’t even fuss. He just talked to Archie as if a baby wasn’t falling asleep on him.

 

“I think Jughead’s days taking care of his little sister never left him,” Betty said, feeling a pang of pain for Jughead who always remembered JB. His sister was 24 now, and she was friendly and affectionate with Jughead, but they weren’t as close as Jughead would like and it often pained Betty to hear him inviting her over often, like a parent cajoling a child to come see them.

 

“He’s going to be an amazing dad,” Veronica said, grinning.

 

“I know,” Betty sighed, happily. “I’m so lucky.”

 

“Hey, he didn’t do too badly himself. I swear, Betty, when you send over stuff like that box of macarons we got last week, I think we all lucked out.”

 

Betty chuckled, leaning back on the couch. “Eh, it’s just as easy to make 3 dozen as one. And I’m nesting, big time. I found myself hand painting patterns on the walls of the twins’ room. I know I’ve reached a whole new level of crazy when I’m freaking myself out. I told Jughead to tell me _no_ if I ever ask him to bring me to the antique fair, unless he wants me to buy half the merchandise. The other day, we happened to pass a junk yard and I saw a rusty bicycle--I wanted to take it, Ronnie, and I wanted to make it so I can mount it on my wall. I mean, I promise it’ll look great, but it's come to that! I look at junk and I want to make it beautiful.”

 

Veronica laughed at her frustrations. “Betty, I have no doubt that anything you touch, you can turn to gold! Speaking of which… have you agreed to that book deal, yet?”

 

“God, no,” Betty said, softly as she rubbed her belly. “I’m putting my foot down on the timeline. I can’t do this book with newborns in the house. They’re going to have to give me what I want or no book. I don’t care if I publish or not, to be honest. That wasn’t my idea, but I do think it would be fun. I can already make and sell the soaps and cheese with my eyes closed. This book is a different thing and it’s exciting, but I want it done on my terms. Jughead’s totally supportive and protective. That helps a lot. With this whole HBO deal, they roll out a red carpet for him when he drops by their offices. I think they actually wrote out a rider for him.”

 

Veronica laughed. “He’s got them by the balls, that’s for sure. I always knew Jughead would end up doing great things, but I was surprised he didn’t resist this HBO deal so badly. The old Jughead would’ve flat out said no.”

 

“We’re working on taking the rewards of what we’ve worked hard for.”

 

“Thank, God. It’s about fucking time Mr. Doom and Gloom had a more optimistic outlook.”

 

“It’s a process. They secured the actor for the lead role the other day and the dude happens to be _extremely_ good looking and _younger_ than the book character’s age.”

 

“Oh my God, who?”

 

“Alfred Enoch,” Betty said with a mischievous arch of her eyebrow.

 

Veronica giggled. “Oh, Em. Gee. _Swoon.”_

 

Betty nodded vehemently. “Right? Jughead was a _little_ cranky about that, but the guy’s a great actor and I’m sure he can pull it off. Juggie’s going with it, and I told him it will be great for the series. He’ll see.”

 

“Lord, all 6 foot 4 of that deliciousness will make that show a huge hit. I will watch him act out the phone book if they make him. Alfred Enoch! Such a hottie.”

 

Betty grinned. “I try not to be too obvious about how good looking I think Enoch is. I think Juggie got a little jealous when I said Enoch was the reason I watch _How to Get Away with Murder_.”

 

“You guys are too cute! When’s filming slated to start?”

 

“A couple of months, I think. But Juggie’s already deep into the script. He wants to show it to me and get my opinion, but he signed an NDA. He can’t even talk about it with me.”

 

Veronica winced. “Boy, that’s going to get him agitated. He needs to show his work to the people he trusts.”

 

Betty shrugged. “He tried to get it in his contract, but he can only get the provision if I were his spouse, so yeah, in a few months he can show me, but not now. He can at least show it to his editor--that one he was able to get permission for, and that should be enough. I think that’s the smarter choice anyway.”

 

“It doesn’t matter if it’s smarter. He’s a grown ass man who wears a beanie as a security blanket, for God’s sake. Of course he needs you to see the script.”

 

Betty had grown fond of that beanie and would be sad the day Jughead gave it up. She always took care of it for him, putting it in with the delicates and draping it on the drying rack instead of throwing it in the dryer.

 

But yes, it was a security blanket of some sorts. His armor against the world. He said that when people saw it on him, they thought him weird and left him alone, which was how he wanted it.  People in the industry saw it as a writer quirk, which allowed him certain eccentricities, such as not talking at parties with people he didn’t know.

 

Betty didn’t mind it in the least. She thought it made him look adorable. Veronica, however, wanted to take it and throw it in the fire.

 

They talked for about an hour before they all turned in for bed.

 

Betty was exhausted, emotionally spent by her parents and physically spent by the weight of the twins on her body.

 

Thank God for Jughead, who lulled her to sleep with a back rub and warm cuddles.

 

All things considered, Betty was grateful for everything she had. Whatever challenges they’ve had to face the last few months: her parents, moving up the date of the wedding, Jughead’s added workload, and her constant battle with anxiety that had teamed up with her hormones, she felt strong and ready to take on them.

 

More importantly, she never felt alone anymore.

 

Because Jughead made her feel whole.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then there was one.


	13. Foreword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veronica nodded. “You would’ve been miserable in a band and you would have made Archie miserable. Now you’re both rich and famous doing what you both love, separately.”
> 
> Jughead wagged a finger at Veronica. “I’m not really famous, you know.”
> 
> “Not yet, but then again, fame was never your drug. Neither was money.” Veronica got up and joined Archie who was already packing up.
> 
> Betty looked up at Jughead, grinning. “And what’s your drug, Juggie?”
> 
> He smiled, kissing her softly. “You. This. Our kids. I just wanted a family.”
> 
> “Me, too,” she whispered, kissing him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter and I'm sad to see it end, too. But know that I will be writing more things. There's one brewing, already, and if you think "Harvest to Home" was angst-free, the new one might be much more angsty. A little more action-packed. A little more dangerous. 
> 
> For now, I'd like to link out to a couple of songs that will be referenced in this fic:
> 
> [First Day of My Life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zwFS69nA-1w) by Bright Eyes  
> [Cotton Eye Joe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mOYZaiDZ7BM) by Rednex
> 
> Not the likeliest of pairings, but I like a good contrast. 
> 
> Lastly, this chapter might be a little less angst-free.

 

The wedding was about as lovely as it could be, even in the middle of December. With the barn beautifully remodeled, it looked nothing like the musty building it once was.

 

The second landing had been preserved and reinforced, the wooden railing replaced by classically intricate dark ironcast metal. It looked gorgeous framed in dark cherry wood. The original flooring on the second landing and the main reception area had been preserved as well, but it was sanded smooth, and treated to restore its beautiful wood grain.  The original beams on the ceiling stayed untouched, but since they had to clear the reception area of any columns to have an open floor plan, new and stronger reinforcement beams were installed across. The effect was pleasing, and the hanging chandeliers that Betty restored, bought from an antique fair, of course, sparkled overhead. The building was now well insulated, and the lovely giant heat lamps added to the charm.

 

The floor had been set up for the ceremony. Later, as guests mingled in the second floor landing for ourves d'oeuvres and cocktails, the ceremonial setup would be replaced by long reception tables, feast-like and beautiful, with white votive candles, wild flowers in small artsy buckets, elegantly appointed country-style white plates, and elegant glasses and cutlery.

 

With their relatively small guest list, it was easy to have that intimacy, interlaced with festive flair.

 

Their nearest and dearest had been invited, with a couple of what Betty called courtesy invites: Jughead’s editor Midge Klump, his literary agent, Ethel Muggs, and FP’s sponsor, who was specifically there to keep FP honest. Archie’s band mates, whom Jughead had to suffer with in college during their garage days, were invited as well, and they made an interesting crew in their multi-colored tuxes.

 

Jughead’s mother was there to attend, which Betty was glad for, anyway. She was seated with Betty’s parents, mildly uncomfortable with each other. The only person who seemed completely at ease with them was Jughead’s sister, JB.

 

The Lodges and the Andrews were there, of course, along with Polly’s family and Cheryl’s parents.

 

Many of the kids who had helped out in the farm had been invited, and Betty suspected that they would provide the gaiety that might have been stifled by the awkward relationships simmering between all of the families in attendance. She and Jughead were only too happy to have them and be among the select few to hear Slick Jack play in this very exclusive performance.

 

Betty breathed, not to calm herself down, because she wasn’t nervous in the least, but because being 5 1/2 months pregnant with twins, in a beautiful wedding dress, felt like a workout.

 

FP watched her with concern. “You okay, hon? Should I get Juggie?”

 

She gave him a reassuring smile and shook her head. “I’m fine, dad. Just, these twins are a load.”

 

FP nodded, his brows still furrowed. “Well, you can lean on me the whole walk down the aisle. I’ve carried heavier loads than you.”

 

She laughed. “I’m probably heavier than a bag of concrete, you know.”

 

He reddened and shook his head. “Jughead was always the one with the words.”

 

“Oh, a lot of the times, he’s just as adorably bumbling. Don’t ever change, okay?”

 

He smiled and gently took her arm. “We’re up. Ready?”

 

“I’ve been ready for this for months!”

 

They walked out to the soft strains of “First Day of my Life” by Bright Eyes, played acoustically and cleverly sung by Archie’s Slick Jack second guitarman.

 

As she looked down the aisle to Jughead, she marveled at how handsome he was in his light grey tux, with his unkempt hair and wide grin. People who knew him thought that grin rare, but it wasn’t, for her. Today it was in full display and she could not help but smile back.

 

Her bridesmaids were in beautiful powder blue dresses, their gowns flowing like goddesses, and Kevin, her Man of honor, looked as gorgeous and dapper as the groomsmen.

 

Jughead’s groomsmen were a lineup of good looking guys in tuxedo vests that matched Jughead’s grey. This was a beautiful entourage.

 

Officiating was none other than Farmer John, who was licensed and was, in fact, an ordained minister in his church. Neither Betty, nor Jughead, were in any way religious, but to have Farmer John marry them was their new religion. It needed to happen.

 

When Betty and FP reached the dais, Betty gave FP a grateful hug. Father and son embraced, and FP actually kissed Jughead’s cheek before letting him go.

 

Jughead took both her hands. “How you doing, Betts? Twins behaving?”

 

She giggled softly. It was such a practical question, but it was perfect, because even amidst the romance and splendor, Jughead was watching out for his family, and that soothed her immeasurably.  

 

“I feel winded,” she replied, softly. “And the twins are behaving, but I need a nap.”

 

He nodded, smirking. “I think we can sneak one in after this.”

 

Farmer John began to speak, and the truth was, it was a bit of a blur for Betty. She recalled Farmer John speaking of love and being surrounded by the people who cared about you the most. He spoke of growing things from the ground up, and how the best crops weathered storms. He talked about the wonderful things that came from this farm and how Betty and Jughead was its most beautiful harvest yet.

 

Several times, Farmer John had to stop and weep, and Archie, true to his duties, had with him a packet of tissues, the sheets of which he parceled out to Farmer John whenever he needed it.

 

The entire time, Jughead and Betty would stifle their laughter and wait for Farmer John to dry his tears.  

 

When it came time to say their vows, they went with the simple, ceremonial words, because they’d said all their real vows long before this wedding and they just wanted to be married.  When the rings were exchanged and they were declared husband and wife, Jughead did not even wait for permission to kiss the bride. He threw back her veil, gathered her in his arms, and kissed her, dipping her romantically to the shouts and whoops of everyone around them.

 

Betty was beaming as she clasped Jughead’s hand and they ran down the aisle.

 

***********

 

The wedding was a beautiful, close knit affair, with wonderful moments of laughter, romance, and unbridled excitement.

 

The guests were thrilled to have live music from none other than the super star band, Slick Jack, and the never ending supply of delicious food kept the energy going. The kids were particularly pumped.

 

Between performances, Archie and the rest of the band reigned like kings, signing autographs and talking to the kids among the haystacks.

 

Betty had initially felt uncomfortable about expecting Archie to perform. She didn’t want to take advantage of his band, but both Jughead and Veronica had scoffed at her objections, telling her that Archie never passed up an opportunity to perform and be the center of attention.

 

Watching him on stage at their wedding, Betty realized that he lived to perform. He seemed to be having the time of his life.

 

Towards the end of the night, as Archie’s spirited performance slowed into his earlier, more sentimental ballads, Betty and Jughead—perched on the barnyard loft and Jughead’s arms enfolding her from behind—listened to a song about cherishing the person you loved.

 

“This day is perfect,” Betty told Jughead quietly, leaning her head back against his shoulder.

 

He rubbed her bump tenderly. “It is, Mrs. Jones. I could not have asked for a more perfect day than this.”

 

She giggled. He’d been calling her Mrs. Jones all evening. She thought it funny and endearing. She didn’t know if she’d get tired of it.  She craned her neck so she could kiss him, and he dipped his head to place his lips over hers. Her hand came up to run her fingers through his hair and he deepened the kiss.

 

They kissed languidly, making out lazily in the dim hayloft. When they separated, his teeth rasped gently against her lower lip.

 

“How long, do you think, before it’s polite to leave our guests so I can make love to my wife?” he asked in a low voice.

 

The timbre in his tone sent shivers down her body, but she grinned. “Maybe an hour? There’s still a lot of them down there.”

 

Jughead growled quietly in frustration. “Maybe I should tell Archie to pack up and leave.”

 

“Mr. Jones,” she said in a chiding tone, though her eyes sparkled with mirth. “One more hour and you’ll make your best friend happy. Just look at him.”

 

Archie sat on stage, strumming his guitar while he sang with his eyes closed. A serene glow radiated from his face and every once in awhile, he’d survey the floor of swaying couples, marveling at his own ability to control the mood in the room.

 

Jughead rolled his eyes. “I’ll have you know that this is slightly triggering me for those garage days of yore, when their music sucked and I had term papers due, like, tomorrow.”

 

“We should’ve asked Reggie to bring weed, then. As I recall, you said you were baked for most of those garage days.”

 

“No. No more of Reggie’s weed.”

 

She giggled. “One more hour.”

 

“Fine. I am nothing if not Archie’s biggest supporter.”

 

“Doesn’t that honor go to Ronnie?”

 

“She’s his biggest groupie.” He grinned as he got up and helped her to her feet.

 

“I bet she would say the opposite.”

 

Jughead grinned. “It’s an ongoing debate.”

 

They rejoined their guests on the reception floor, with the kids taking turns dancing with with Betty, and Jughead having thoughtful discussions about his books to the kids who read them.

 

When the kids’ parents started to coax them home and many of the other guests started to beg leave, Archie revealed that he wanted to do a closing song with his best friend.

 

“Many of you may not know this, but before I formed Slick Jack, we were The Archies.”

 

Jughead groaned. “Oh, God.”

 

A small chorus of cheers erupted.

 

“Jughead was my drummer,” Archie continued. “And the first song we ever completed was a cover called Cotton-Eyed Joe.”

 

Betty was decidedly surprised at the song choice. She turned to her husband. “Really?”

 

Jughead shrugged, laughing. “It was fun!”

 

When Archie’s bandmates brought out two violins, Archie a ukelele, and Veronica got up on stage, Jughead knew what was coming.

 

Betty turned to him, bright eyed. “You _have_ to do this.”

 

And of course, he would do absolutely anything for her.

 

So up went Jughead on stage, loosening his tux as he sat himself behind the drums. He hadn’t played in over a decade, so he did a few practice beats, and two minutes later he was twirling the drumsticks between his fingers, and he marveled at how it came back to him so quickly.

 

When Archie started the song in acapella, the way it was meant to start, the tune reverberated through Jughead’s limbs instantly. Archie strummed the accompanying riff, and then Jughead came in with the drums, right before the violins.

 

The audience went wild and Betty, forever the dancer, led on the floor with Reggie on her arm and the kids all around them following their lead. Everyone else in the audience partnered up, turning circles and dancing to the music. Cheryl danced with her new girlfriend, Toni. Kevin danced with his boyfriend, Joaquin, Polly and her kids danced with Jason, and Farmer John happily danced with his husband.

 

Veronica sang the woman’s part in perfect tune—her singing voice had always been stage worthy, and the fiddles played ferociously to the beat. Archie took up the ukulele and brought the house down.

 

Jughead remembered playing this song so many times that he could play the drums perfectly without anyone to accompany him, but with Archie singing his part like the pro he now was, it was explosively fun.

 

Even Alice took to the floor with Hal. Fred danced with Mary, his ex-wife, and FP took to the floor with Gladys, Jughead’s mom. The Blossoms were more reserved, but they danced all the same. Everyone took to the dance floor, with the crowd shouting “Hey! Hey!” to the beat of the song.

 

The song ended with a bang and everyone cheered riotously. Laughter permeated through the barn and the band on stage, including Jughead, gave a grandiose bow.

 

With that, the reception ended on a high note and the party finally broke up. There was no way to top that, and it was time to call it a night.

 

Jughead jumped off the stage and Betty flew into his arms, grinning as she kissed him.

 

“The drummer is the coolest member of the band, you know,” she said, her eyes alight and her cheeks flushed.

 

Jughead chuckled. “Well, obviously!”

 

Veronica sat by them on the edge of the stage. “I remember those days fondly, Jug. When you were their drummer and the girls went wild for the aloof dude in the back, which is probably why you quit the band in the first place.”

 

“Archie was so pissed,” Jughead recalled. “It was one of our worst fights.”

 

Betty smirked. “It all worked out for the best.”

 

“It did. Can you imagine me doing this everyday? For a living?”

 

Veronica nodded. “You would’ve been miserable in a band and you would have made Archie miserable. Now you’re both rich and famous doing what you both love, separately.”

 

Jughead wagged a finger at Veronica. “I’m not really famous, you know.”

 

“Not yet, but then again, fame was never your drug. Neither was money.” Veronica got up and joined Archie who was already packing up.

 

Betty looked up at Jughead, grinning. “And what’s your drug, Juggie?”

 

He smiled, kissing her softly. “You. _This._ Our kids. I just wanted a family.”

 

“Me, too,” she whispered, kissing him back.

 

“See, you two lovebirds need to skedaddle,” Cheryl said, suddenly appearing beside them with Kevin on her arm.

 

Kevin smirked. “We’ll take care of getting rid of everyone.”

 

Jughead chuckled. “Really? You’d do that?”

 

“Watch us do it, honey,” Kevin said, pushing up the sleeves of his tux and winking.

 

Cheryl licked her lips. “You very well know Kevin and I _love_ kicking people out. Also, I know you both love me for being a huge ass bitch.”

 

In many respects, Jughead was man enough to admit that was true.

 

Betty was quicker on the uptake. “Never change, Cher and Kevin. Juggie, let’s go!”

 

He threw a quick thanks to their bouncers over his shoulder before letting Betty pull him into the house, up into their room, and into her waiting arms.

 

***********

 

Because Betty was giving birth to twins, the doctors strongly recommended that she undergo a c-section at 39 weeks instead of 40.

 

Amazing though it was that her pregnancy has now reached 35 weeks without incident or foreseeable complications, the fact that they lived 40 minutes away from everything, including a hospital, made the doctors nervous, which in turn made Jughead nervous.

 

While Betty was hardly alone on most days, there would be hours long stretches that she would be all by herself.

 

Filming for _Epistrophe_ had begun and Jughead’s frequent trips to the city kept him away from Betty until late evening.

 

Jughead was getting distractedly anxious. Even if Betty managed to call for help in the event of an emergency, the paramedics would take at least 20 minutes to get to her and he would take even longer.

 

He needed this situation to change.

 

“Baby,” he said to her one evening, taking her hands in his.

 

Betty’s lips pursed. “Jughead.”

 

He took a deep breath, hoping desperately that this did not have to be a fight. “I’m worried about you being here alone, so far away from help if you need it. It’s all I can think about these days and basically, if anything bad happens to you or the babies, it will fucking destroy me, so I’d like you to consider spending the next 3 weeks with Cheryl, or with V, if you prefer. You’re two miles away from a hospital, either way, and you’ll never have to be alone, as—I can’t believe I’m saying this—both have butlers. I will go home to wherever you are everyday until these babies are born, and then we can go back to the farm. It’s not ideal, but I need you to be safe. What do you think?”

 

He had, admittedly, practiced this. He wanted to get all his points across in as little time as possible to avoid any drawn out, emotional arguments. He didn’t want her to get upset because he could see that the weight of these babies on her was not easy.

 

Betty wasn’t a petite woman by any means. She was long limbed and fit, but her frame had stayed slim while her belly grew round with twins, and he could tell how annoyed she was at having to _waddle._ He could see in her stance that her ballet training was warring with the effort to carry the load in front of her. She had been graceful all her life and now she couldn’t be even if she wanted to.

 

At first he found her predicament amusing, but realizing that this was seriously pissing her off, he _did not_ joke about it. Instead, he gave her rubs and lower back massages, because her stubbornness was probably doing a number on the muscles on her back. But even with that reprieve every night, this effort of being herself, or rather keeping her composure, was fraying her usually sunny disposition.

 

He didn’t even know if he wanted to bring it up, to tell her that she didn’t have to meet impossible expectations at this stage of her pregnancy, because he could feel her stubborn resolve radiating off her, almost like she needed all of it to feel normal in a situation where she felt everything but.

 

So he was a little surprised and alarmed when he saw the tension from her shoulders melt away and her eyes fill with tears.

 

He hadn’t expected tears at all. “Betts…?”

 

She nodded, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. “I don’t want to risk the babies, either. I’ll move in with Cher. She’d been telling me for weeks, already. I was just—I hate having to depend on other people, Juggie, and I hate that you have to worry about me.”

 

“What? Please, don’t. It’s what I’m here for. I’m supposed to worry about you. C’mere.”  He pulled her into his arms and rubbed her back tenderly. “I hate to take you away from the farm, but the thought of you being alone makes me impossible to have a normal conversation with.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“No, it’s not your fault. I’m an overthinker. You are, too, so you know what I mean.”

 

She nodded, sniffling. “I’ll pack my things tonight, then we can head out tomorrow morning after we’ve talked to Kevin and Farmer John.”

 

“I’ll get the hospital bag ready. The baby seats are in the truck and Cher said we can park the truck at her garage. I can probably find street parking, but I’ve never had to find parking in the city for a huge ass vehicle before.”

 

That managed to get a giggle from Betty, which Jughead considered a win. Mention of the truck always made her smile.

 

While they hadn’t traded in Betty’s old truck, her two seater and his motorcycle weren’t exactly fit for a family of four anymore. They had to get a new truck, one that could accommodate two infants, two adults, and possibly other passengers, plus have space in the trunk for storage.

 

This was how they ended up with a huge 8-seater with full trunk space. The thing looked so huge that Jughead called it a submarine, and Jughead might have gone with something smaller if Veronica hadn’t talked him into it. Veronica had rattled off countless pros, but the one that got Jughead were the safety features, which Veronica had played into like an expert manipulator.

 

“Can you imagine baby Margaret and Trevor if some fool in front of you breaks hard and fast? Those little bugs of yours will need protection from all sides! Not only does this model have the best stability control in the business, but it has airbags in the front and the sides! The body itself is pretty tough, and its shock absorbers are placed throughout—wheels, body, glass. It’s like being in a tank. Nothing short of a land mine is going to rock it. Everyone in the truck will be safe.”

 

Veronica should have worked for their car company.

 

At any rate, Hal got them a huge discount on the thing, so it seemed almost unreasonable to go with something else.

 

Jughead’s relief at finally getting Betty settled in the city was great. He didn’t have to worry so much about her anymore and he could compartmentalize better. So could Betty.

 

So far, everything was going according to plan.

 

**********

 

The best thing about Betty being nearby was being with her at lunch. Filming was never too far away from Cheryl’s penthouse and all he had to do was hop into a train or two and he was with Betty, eating her home cooked food, and cuddling with her until break was over and he had to leave.

 

Sometimes Cheryl was there, which was always entertaining.

 

It was Thursday and he was looking forward to the end of it, because Friday was a break day and he looked forward to spending the entire day with Betty.

 

He listened lightly to Cheryl dishing on the details of her last date with Toni, but he was ever aware of Betty’s fingers which were threaded through his on the dining table.

 

Betty flashed him a smile and he smiled back, marveling at his good fortune.

 

“Are you guys even listening to me?” Cheryl whined.

 

Jughead chuckled and turned to her. “I’m trying, but my wife is so gorgeous that I’m eternally distracted.”

 

Betty kissed his cheek as Cheryl rolled her eyes.

 

Betty stood to head to the kitchen as Jughead bickered with Cheryl. This was their usual pattern at lunch, and it always took away from the stress of Jughead’s long and busy days.

 

Cheryl was in the midst of telling him about being contacted by Jimmy Fallon’s people to get to _him_ when a crash from the kitchen instantly put Jughead on high alert.

 

Betty was on the floor, shards of plate and glass around her. Jughead stood so fast his chair flipped back and fell over, and when he saw the dark red blood on the chair she had left at the table, his world crumbled around him.

 

**********

 

Betty was flitting in and out of consciousness as the doctors and nurses rushed and wheeled her gurney through the hospital. Jughead ran alongside her, his hand clasping hers desperately, talking to her through the chaos of it all amidst the doctor’s orders to his staff.

 

Betty blinked languidly through her oxygen mask, asking over and over if the babies were going to be alright, but he had no answers for her. Nobody was telling him anything and he had to stifle the terrified tears that were threatening to overcome him.

 

Visions of his torturous past kept coming back to him, of good things taken away, of disappointments turning into tragedies, of failures compounded by disasters. He had to remind himself of that night Betty took his hand and let him feel the first flutters of their children in her belly, of her telling him that the things he touched did not turn into poison.

 

They reached two heavy double doors and suddenly a nurse came between them, pushing him aside. Betty’s hand was slipping away from him.

 

“Juggie!”

 

“Baby, it’s okay!” Jughead yelled after her. Then he was directing a murderous glare at the nurse. “I have to be with her.”

 

The nurse pressed her hands on his shoulders and he watched helplessly as the swinging doors engulfed his whole life.

 

“We need you to wait here awhile,” the nurse said, gently. “We will call you in a few minutes, but you need to wait here.”  

 

With that, the nurse left and hurried after them.

 

Jughead wanted to scream after her.

 

“Jonesy!” someone cried behind him.

 

He turned and there was Cheryl and he had never welcomed her comforting embrace as much as he did now. Having her crashing into him felt grounding. It brought him back to solid footing where a second ago he felt like he was spiraling out of control.

 

“Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” came a faint voice.

 

Cheryl pulled back, her phone in her hands. Kevin’s face shone through the screen, worry and anguish wrinkling the smooth lines of his brow.

 

“Where is she? What did they say?” Cheryl demanded.

 

“She’s in there,” Jughead said, gesturing to the doors. “They won’t tell me anything.”

 

“That’s unacceptable,” Cheryl hissed, her back stiffening. “Where are the doctors? I demand—“

 

“They said they would come get me,” he added helplessly, not sure himself who “they” were. “She doesn’t like being alone with strangers. God, I need to call Archie and Veronica. I need to call my dad.”

 

“I’ve called them. They’re on their way here. Just sit here and wait. I’ve got you, Jones.”

 

He shot Cheryl a grateful look and she sank on the seat beside him, her arm over his shoulders offering some measure of calm. Kevin offered his own words of strength, telling him that Betty was strong and stubborn, but at the moment, it sounded more like Kevin was convincing himself.

 

Jughead’s mind was racing, hope battling with the debilitating thought that disaster was knocking on his life’s door. He didn’t know how much time had passed before he heard the clicking of heels on the linoleum floor and saw the worried faces of Veronica, Archie, and FP.

 

And then it was quiet chaos, arms around and on him, questions left and right.

 

He didn’t know. He didn’t know. He didn’t know.

 

He was drowning and he didn’t know what to do.

 

_“Son!”_

 

Jughead blinked and he saw that it was his father, FP’s hands holding him by the face.

 

“Stay with us, alright?” FP said. “We can’t lose you. Got it?”

 

Swallowing, he nodded, clinging to FP to stay afloat.

 

Suddenly the doors were opening and the doctor walked out and made her way to him.

 

He had to take a deep breath to keep from trembling.

 

“They’re stable,” the doctor told him, and relief hit Jughead like a jackhammer. “The babies are okay and Mrs. Jones is in stable condition. Her uterus shifted and that caused the bleeding. She lost a bit more blood than she should’ve but the bleeding stopped on its own and we’re helping her build her plasma back up. Her water broke in all that and she is currently in active labor. We’re prepping her for surgery this minute. We’re getting the babies out _now_ Mr. Jones. Are you ready to meet your kids?”

 

He froze and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. The relief, worry, and joy were coming over him in waves and he couldn’t move or form a coherent thought.

 

“Jug!” Archie cried, slapping him on the back. “Get in there, dude! Betty needs you!”

 

That was the kick to the ass he needed. He let the doctor lead him through the doors. He was instructed to wash up, then they put him in sterile scrubs, a hair cover, and stuck his shoes in sterile booties.

 

Inside the operating room, a large curtain separated the surgical procedure from him and Betty’s gaze. Her hair had been tied back in a neat ponytail set low on her nape.

 

Her eyes lit with relief at seeing him and he went to her, sitting on the stool the nurses provided him.

 

“I think they’re going to be okay, Juggie,” she told him through her tears.

 

He kissed her forehead and fought to keep the sting in his own eyes from overcoming him. “They’re okay. You’re okay. I’m here and we’re good. We’re good, baby.”  He caressed her head. It was the only part of her that he could touch. The hand she had outside the curtain had been commandeered by the anaesthesiologist, fingers on her pulse in spite of the monitors beeping all around them.

 

Jughead told her softly who was outside, waiting to see her. She was smiling already and he was on the precipice of finally calming down when they heard the shrill cry of an infant breaking the steady sound of doctors working.

 

He looked up at the doctors and then at Betty, eyes wide with wonder. Betty started to tear up. A second shrill cry cut through the first, and they were two distinctly different voices.

 

“You ready, papa?” the doctor said to him. He couldn’t see the doctor’s lips, but her eyes were smiling. “Come on.” She gestured for him to follow her.

 

“I’ll be right back,” he told Betty, pressing a kiss to her lips and then getting up to follow the doctor.

 

He was ushered around the tent-like setup and then suddenly, there they were, the tiniest, most beautiful babies he had ever seen, one bundled in pink and the other in blue.

 

“Daddy’s here!” said one nurse and soft cheering went around. “Let’s give him his perfect little babies!”

 

On any other day, he would’ve groused at the heteronormative treatment of colors, but right now, all he could think was that this was their baby boy and girl and he loved them so deeply that nothing mattered.

 

They gave him Margaret first, the nurse placing her securely on one arm. And then Trev was cradled on his other arm, and he was laughing at the sheer joy having them both in his arms gave him.

 

Their soft, downy hair was the same color as his, black, but with little flecks of brown. He could hardly see their eyes, squinting as they were against the light, but their impossibly tiny fists were in their mouths, and as they tried to blink, he caught flashes of the most brilliant green he had only ever seen on their mother.

 

He was led back to Betty, and she sobbed as he pressed their cheeks against hers. Jughead leaned over and kissed her on the lips, then he told the twins softly that mommy was so glad to see them.

 

Shortly thereafter, the twins had to be put in their separate bassinets. Jughead almost protested when each one was taken from his arms.

 

“Papa, you’ll have to come with us,” the nurse said as they began to wheel the twins out. “Gotta make sure we don’t switch your babies with someone else’s.”

 

His eyes widened in horror. _Does that really happen?_

 

“I’m kidding,” said the nurse.

 

He swallowed and chuckled nervously, but he didn’t even have enough time to tell Betty he had to go. He was ushered right after Margaret and Trevor, with the nurse reassuring him that _mom_ was going to be brought to recovery and that they’d both be able to spend time with the babies then.

 

They made their way to the baby ward, and Jughead was placed behind the viewing glass as nurses gently stuck monitors on both babies, measured their vitals, and tested some of their reflexes.

 

Jughead watched his son and daughter with tender fascination as he peeled off his scrubs, noting that they looked dazed and confused. They trembled a little, and Jughead wanted to knock on the glass and tell the nurse that Margaret was cold and can they please put a blanket on her? But seconds later the nurses were swaddling them again, and then they looked snug and peaceful once more, their eyes blinking sleepily.

 

It was only then he noticed the cards on their bassinet. One said “Jones: Girl” and the other “Jones: Boy”. His heart felt like bursting.

 

He just stood there, content to stare at his children, counting the minutes when he could get them and take them to their mother.  

 

But then he was enveloped in warmth, the sighs and coos of his friends and family humming around his shoulders, their squeals of delight ringing in his ears and their loving hands clapping him on the back.

 

“Oh, Jug, I can’t! They are so precious! My little niece and nephew! _Abuelita_ will be all over them!”

 

“They’re gorgeous, son. Can’t wait to hold them.”

 

“They need matching Burberry onesies and beanies. I found the perfect Prada diaper bag the other day. I swear I’m going to buy them everything.”

 

“Dude, they are going to be the smartest kids in the world.”

 

He heard their voices, knew who spoke them, and for the first time since the terror of seeing the blood on Betty’s chair and her on the floor overcame him, he finally found that smile.

 

He started to speak and tell them what it was like being in the operating room, about meeting Margaret and Trevor for the first time and holding them in his arms. He told them how he had to hold them for Betty because she couldn’t. He gave details and they were rapt with his words, distracted only when Trevor gave an adorable little yawn.

 

When the doctor came to tell him that he could see Betty, Cheryl told him to give her their love, which effectively stunned everyone.

 

It was at that point Cheryl dissolved into tears. “I thought I was going to lose her, Jonesy! I thought my best friend was gonna die!”

 

And Jughead couldn’t help but take Cheryl into a warm, comforting embrace. “Come on, Red. Let’s go in there and see her.”

 

So he entered Recovery with Cheryl where they were met with Betty’s radiant smile.

 

Cheryl rushed into Betty’s arms, sobbing into her shoulder. Her makeup came off on Betty’s gown and Jughead let Betty soothe her as he sat on the other side of the bed, holding Betty’s free hand.

 

When Cheryl finally composed herself, she stepped back and took a tissue to wipe some of the ruined makeup off her face.

 

“I think I’m good now,” Cheryl said, sniffing. “You fucking scared the shit out of me, you blonde bitch.”

 

Betty smiled at her affectionately. “I’m sorry, Cher.”

 

“Obviously, my niece and nephew know how to make a goddamn entrance. They got that from me.”

 

“Obviously,” Jughead replied.

 

“I’ll be right outside, okay? Do you want anything? Food? Alcohol? God knows I need wine.”

 

“I think we’re good for now, Cher,” Betty replied. “But thank you.”

 

“Don’t give wine to my pop.”

 

“I know that, Jonesy. You take me for an idiot?” She stormed out of recovery and Jughead knew she was going to be alright.

 

When they were alone, Jughead turned to Betty, tucking away some stray strands of hair that had fallen over her forehead. “How do you feel?”

 

“I feel okay,” Betty replied. “I don’t feel any pain yet. Are the babies—“

 

“They’re beautiful, Betts. Both of them.” He kissed her, slowly and lovingly. He felt overwhelmed with love and he couldn’t tell her enough.

 

There was a sound behind the curtain and two bassinets were slowly wheeled into their area by a nurse.

 

Betty gasped and put her arms out, imploring Jughead to give them to her, which he did, carefully picking each one up to put both in their mother’s arms. The nurse helped to make it easier, tucking pillows underneath the cradle of Betty’s arms. They were both so tiny—6 pounds and 5 ounces.

 

Betty fawned over them both and Jughead did the same right over her shoulders. He couldn’t count how many kisses he gave all three of them just in that hour alone, but he knew he was going to give many more.

 

“I can’t believe it, Juggie,” Betty whispered, nuzzling Margaret’s nose then kissing Trevor’s forehead, both seeking their mother’s touch as soon as it left them. “I can’t believe we’re here. And I’m _so_ happy.”

 

He kissed her mouth, softly. “Me too, Betty. I can’t ask for anything else. I still sometimes wonder what I did to deserve this...”

 

She pulled away to look him in the eyes. “Juggie… you deserve this for being yourself. You are a wonderful and amazing man. You should know this—you have it tattooed on your arm: We accept the love we think we deserve.”

 

He let her words wash over him and he tried to recall if he had told her the significance of the tattoo.

 

He had gotten that tattoo in homage to the novel _The Perks of Being a Wallflower_ and the impression it made on him. It was a book about a teenager who liked being in the background and was happy to let his life be as inconspicuous as possible, forced as it had been by a secret so deep that the character himself tried to forget it. So he took the best quote in the book and had it inked into his arm. He was so young at the time, and the tattoo artist wasn’t even certified, so the guy didn’t have many qualms inking a minor without parental consent. It was his first tattoo.

 

Later, through his father’s incarceration, his mother’s rejection, and his shackling to the foster system, all of which combined to make him think that the world was against him, the only thing that kept him together was the stubborn belief that he was a good guy who deserved better. No one was around to tell him that except the tattoo, embedded into his skin with the point of a needle and the mingling of ink and blood.

 

_“We accept the love we think we deserve.”_

 

He wanted to _deserve_ more than what his father, mother, and the foster system could give him at the time, so when Archie and his father offered to take him away from the school janitor’s closet, he accepted. When the foster system told him he was going to get dumped with some strangers and he met the Lodges, their kindness a balm to his fears, he made it work, and Veronica became the sister he hoped to have.

 

He had told himself at the beginning of the end that he deserved better and found, months later, that it _was_ better, because he had let himself believe it could be.

 

Now here he was, his family gathered in the embrace of his arms, and his happiness was immeasurable, even knowing that there was more where it came from.

 

“You’re right, Betts,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You are so right.”

 

She grinned. “Of course I am.”

 

Trevor gave a tiny yawn and nestled in Betty’s arm to sleep, but Margaret began to root for her meal.

 

“Now we know who got the Jones appetite,” Betty crooned, extending her arm for Jughead to take Trevor.

 

Chuckling softly, Jughead took him, cradling him gently as he let Betty feed Margaret.

 

Yes, he deserved this, and he loved them all so deeply. Betty and their children was his whole life, and there was absolutely nothing to be afraid of anymore.

  
  


**_Foreword_ **

 

_“What makes a home? Is it the roof above your head, or the number of rooms in your house? Is it the food or how many parents, kids, friends you have? A few have asked me that question and each time my answer is the same._

 

_What makes a home is love. Because home is being surrounded by the people you love. They may or may not be related to you. They might not even physically live with you, but if these people, or even pets, occupy real estate in your heart, then you know you have a home._

 

_My home is where I met the love of my life, where our children came home to after I gave birth to them. It’s where they now toddle with farm animals and help me harvest vegetables from my garden. It’s where my husband puts magic to words so the world can share it with him. It’s where we’ll bring home baby Madeline, once she’s born._

 

_A home is where your love is nurtured and grown, but it takes some work to express your love to the people you care for. With luck, it is the sort of thing you’d want to do without a prescriptive book._

 

_That said, if you’d like a bit of flair, a bit of fancy—with shiplap and antique pieces made new, delicious dishes for the table or the picnic blanket in the fresh outdoors, delightful crafts for kids and adults alike—I’d love to share some of my secrets with you for a beautiful, warm, and loving home…”_

 

_— Betty Cooper-Jones, **From Harvest to Home: Notes from Riverdale Farms** , © 2020, 1st ed., published by Little, Row & Brown_

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'd like to thank you all for reading, writing comments, and leaving kudos. I appreciate you all. 
> 
> It will be a while before my next story, but mostly because I'm either writing it or I'm revising this other story that I already have on hand. When I'm done with either one, I promise I will start to post it. 
> 
> Whatever happens, you will see my stories on this feed again.

**Author's Note:**

> As you can probably figure out, you're going to experience very little stress reading this fic.


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